


Astral Fire, Umbral Heart

by The Rose Mistress (kattractive)



Series: Hear, Feel, Think [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drabble, Established Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied Sexual Content, Loss, Love, Love Triangles, Magic, Nostalgia, Reflection, Romance, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Snapshots, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, literally anything to do with relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 25,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattractive/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: Within her dwelt both ice and fire—but not in equal parts. An exploration into my WoL, and her emotional triangulation between Estinien and Aymeric.Sketches of a messy love story, following events of the MSQ. Not all scenes are chronological, but later ones fall in sequence. Probably more "R" rated; marked M for content. Rating is subject to change. Angst, fluff, smut, and more angst. I love basically every character, but especially Aymeric and Estinien.✦ HERE THERE BE SPOILERS! Especially Heavensward, but anything up to current patch (~4.5). You have been warned.Chapter one contains a detailed Table of Contents, with brief summaries and info for quick navigation.





	1. Foreword & Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> ✦ My use of prompts is sparse as of December 2018, but I'm open to suggestions! ✦  
> (These days I use a lot of classical music and in-game OST for inspiration.)
> 
> A list of the prompts initially used/created to begin this work:
> 
> Prompt #1 10/21/2017: I'd love to read a paragraph or two describing your original character through the eyes of a favorite NPC. OR, as an alternative, you can write the way your character sees the fave NPC.
> 
> Prompt #2 10/31/2017: Reflections on the past. What is something that thoroughly defines your character in terms of personal history? Lineage? Geographical origin? This can be a scene, snapshot of a moment, or a full on internal monologue, whatever you like. Alternative: What motivates your character? What do they live for? What are they trying to accomplish? What makes their soul sing and their spirit soar (or- what drags them down and makes them feel discouraged?) Alternative: Your character reflecting on a topic of your choice.
> 
> Prompt #3 11/2/2017: Your character is having a wonderful dream. Go.
> 
> Prompt #4 11/4/2017: A "first date" type of scenario. Alternately, your character in an awkward scenario. Alternately, your character in a thrilling scenario.
> 
> *** Yet unwritten:
> 
> Prompt #5 11/5/2017: What would utterly break your character? What would that look like?
> 
> Prompt #5 11/8/2017: A childhood memory. A fear, fleshed out. A childhood dream. What type of person did your character dream of "ending up with?" What type of person did your character want to become? Did/will any of that realistically happen?

* * *

☘  **Foreword** ❦

When a frozen heart is shattered, nothing but the very deepest warmth can salve it back together.

This whole thing began as an FC friend "writing challenge" back in the winter of 2017. I never really had a "plot" in mind besides the "secret plot events" I imagined while playing Heavesnward and beyond. My Warrior of Light is a hyur Highlander half-breed with a lot of complicated emotions about her identity. Also, Aymeric and Estinien.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

 ☙  **Table of Contents** ❧

* * *

 ☄  **Astral Fire, Umbral Heart** ☄

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**  
Where chronology is intensely relevant, I have prefaced it in the body of the text.
  2. **Azure Reflection**  
Occurs post-MSQ "Stormblood."  
A brief memory of the Warrior of Light, in the mind's eye of one Azure Dragoon.
  3. **Insights, Unsettled**  
Small snapshot, quite soon after MSQ "Into the Aery."  
Our WoL having  _very_ inconvenient thoughts about Estinien.
  4. **Confessions**  
Directly post-MSQ "As Goes Light, So Goes Darkness."  
Our WoL is driven to confess her feelings for Aymeric.
  5. **Inheritance**  
WARNING: Lightly implied smut. OC/OC. Also, Garleans.  
Quite soon after MSQ "Stormblood." Backstory  & origins.  
After the events of Ala Mhigo and the Royal Menagerie, our WoL receives an unexpected Echo.
  6. **Confessions, Pt. II**  
A continuation of Ch. 4, "Confessions," regarding Aymeric/WoL.
  7. **Third Eye**  
Our WoL has a dream/reflection about her father.
  8. ****Mourning Tea  
**** Chronologically, a continuation of "Confessions, Pt. II."
  9. **Confessions, Pt. III  
** It continues. Aymeric/WoL.
  10. **Verbiage**  
Mild warning for Alphinaud having unrequited feelings for the WoL. Alphinaud/WoL friendship.  
Alphinaud does some Alphinaud things. Also falls in the "Confessions" chronology of events.
  11. **Confessions, Pt. IV**  
Fasten your seatbelts, the Aymeric/WoL train's a'comin' ...
  12. **Waxless and Wickless**  
WARNING: Implied smut. Estinien/WoL.  
A glimpse into our WoL's history with Estinien.  
Occurs in and around the events of MSQ "Into the Aery."
  13. **Confessions, Pt. V**  
Nightmares and memories of the recent (Heavensward) past. Estinien/WoL/Aymeric.  
We return to the "Confessions" storyline.
  14. **Impostor Syndrome, or Third Eye, Pt. II  
** Some of our WoL's self-reflections, especially regarding her father.  
Chronology-irrelevant musings on her character and identity.
  15. **Her Umbral Heart**  
WoL feelings of angst post-Antitower, pre-meeting with Aymeric. Falls in the "Confessions" chronology.  
In-game, this takes place between Dragonsong War MSQ "The Word of the Mother" and "This War of Ours."
  16. **Mists of Feelings**  
Occurs after the WoL meets with Aymeric following the Antitower. Falls in with "Confessions." A bit of Aymeric POV, and interlude.  
Continues chronologically from the previous chapter, after the cutscene of "This War of Ours." **  
**
  17. **Rime Wreath**  
WARNING: Strongly implied smut. Estinien/WoL.  
A flashback within the "Confessions" series.  
A vivid memory of Estinien, brought on by the ending of the previous chapter.
  18. **Shelter**  
As dawn breaks, our WoL thinks back on a memory of Haurchefant, and a memory shortly after his death.  
Continues in sequence from the previous chapters, in the angsty time span after the events of the Antitower. 
  19. **Divine Veil**  
Our WoL tries to get a grip on the flooding angst. Little does she know, Aymeric is standing by.  
Some exploration into my idea of Aymeric's inner world, and a bit of what he's been feeling.
  20. ****Aetherpact****  
Mild warning again for Alphinaud having unrequited feelings for the WoL. Alphinaud/WoL friendship.  
Our WoL enlists Alphinaud's assistance in restoring her peace of mind.
  21. **Unceremonious**  
Aymeric gets to see her again.  
Hot fluff, short and sweet. Aymeric POV.
  22. **Almost a Promise**  
Aymeric and our WoL spend a smidgen of time together.  
On the way home, she reflects on her opinion of love to this point.
  23. **Here and Now**  
WARNING: Hot, HOT fluff. Aymeric/WoL.  
Calm, domestic moments with spice on the side.  
Samantha pays Aymeric an uninvited visit.  
  




* * *

 ❦

* * *

 

♠  **Original Characters** ❦

* A running list of everyone my friends and I have created in Eorzea.  
I will add more names & descriptions to this list as I finally write impressions about them.

My characters:

☄  **Samantha Floravale**  — Awkward but deeply compassionate, this love child of star-crossed lovers is driven to prove herself, but troubled by the the fear that she'll never be enough.

Samantha grew up in the northern reaches of the Shroud, just far enough from Gyr Abania.  As a child, she studied reading, writing, math, and science under the expert tutelage of her father, and magicks under the rough instruction of her mother.  While nothing was wrong with her childhood, and her parents were very loving, discovering the truth of her father's heritage scared her blind, and she ultimately wanted nothing more than to escape it.  She enrolled in a White apprenticeship in New Gridania as soon as she was old enough and able.  She boarded at her apprenticeship until the age of eighteen, then served in the area as a healer-for-hire and private tutor — reading, writing, and science.  Her various skills caught the eye of a professor in the area, and he hired her to be his assistant.  When that ended, she began her career as an "adventurer," slowly pursuing her ultimate goal of studying every known form of magick — but especially the dichotomy of White and Black.  Post-Calamity, she journeyed back to the Shroud to check on her parents.  Satisfied that they were safe, but still vaguely estranged from them, she remained in the Shroud for a short time before feeling the urge to run away again.  She resumed her adventures, journeying to Ul'dah before she was suddenly "chosen" by Hydaelyn to wear the mantle of Light — much to her awe and astonishment.  
  
♔  **Bryony Floravale**  — Fiery, determined, and headstrong, this beautiful innkeep from the Gyr Abanian highlands accidentally stole the heart of an Imperial.  
⚜  **Cassius mal Magnus**  — A sassy and brilliant Garlean engineer specializing in medical magitek, Cassius found himself bewitched while stationed in the Gyr Abanian highlands.

Friends' characters:  
  
⚔ **Erika Howl** — Provocative and passionate, the flames of her soul crackle with an intensity that threatens to burn both herself and others.  
☽ **Lunara Ahm** — Thoughtful and stoic, a complex ocean of nostalgia lies barely contained beneath her smooth, cool surface.  
♘  **Kanza Oreth**  — Always smiling and vibrant, his bold and flirtatious charisma serves as a natural shield for the pain he has endured.  
✮  **Skorch Blackstar**  — Afraid to let anyone in after all he's been through, he keeps to himself, using humor and self-deprecation to keep others safely at arm's length.

* * *

 


	2. Azure Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10/21/2017: I'd love to read a paragraph or two describing your character through the eyes of a beloved NPC in Eorzea. (I picked Estinien, because he's my original Husbandsward husband and I haven't shown him nearly enough love.) 
> 
> As always, beware spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was based off of a prompt that I created to "subtly" (read as: "indulgently") beg for fluff of my friends' characters.

* * *

_The following takes place sometime around the events of  the Main Scenario Quest, "Stormblood."_

* * *

✦

Estinien closed his eyes.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Stars' light streamed down on her shoulders. From her vantage point on the walkways of the Pillars, she surveyed the airship landing below.

Though her back was to him, he could imagine the expression on her face: intent, focused, the line of the horizon in her eyes.

_Ever vigilant._

He smirked.

As he approached, he chuckled, low under his breath.

"Come, my friend," he muttered, knowing that the low, dark tones of his voice would be clear enough to carry. "The hearth of the House Fortemps is warm, and I have a mind to take advantage of your hosts' hospitality."

There was a moment, a pause of breath. Then her soft laugh.

She turned to face him.

"Had enough of the snow, ser dragoon?"

As she spoke, the wind combed through her long hair, curling dark strands against the night sky. A sprinkling of snowflakes caught, then melted.

Tall, intimidating. At times, severe.

_But also enchanting._

His lips curved, the slightest grin visible beneath the lip of his visor. "You forget that I was forged in this winter," he said softly, holding her gaze with his hidden eyes. The joints of his armor clinked together as he took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

Her dark eyes twinkled and she stood her ground. "Of course I haven't," she quipped, her breath rising in a cloud. She raised one sharp brow. "How else did you come to be so--"

"Cold?" He cut her off, grasping her elbow with armored fingers.

Fire flashed through her expression and a smile tempted her lips. "Very bold, Estinien," she warned. But she made no move to escape, even as he pulled her closer. "Here? Where any of the Lords might see?"

But he could hear the hitch in her breath as he used his free hand to lift the visor covering his eyes.

"Let them see," he growled, tilting his face to close the final whisper of distance between them.

The touch of her lips was as soft as he remembered.

Her voice was softer than snowfall. "Estinien."

_Estinien._

\- - - - - - - - - -

He closed his eyes, shutting out the memory.

But as he looked out on the Gyr Abanian horizon, a smile lingered on his lips.

✦

* * *

 


	3. Insights, Unsettled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time I wrote anything inspired by Heavensward. A snapshot, Estinien-based.

* * *

_This snapshot takes place sometime quite soon after the Main Scenario Quest, "Into the Aery."_

* * *

✦

Moonlight streamed in through the stained glass of the Manor Fortemps, casting cool illumination on the sun-bronzed cheeks of the Warrior of Light. Her black lashes fluttered as she scanned the art of the arching windows, her mind filled with thoughts that flurried much like the quiet snow outside.

She was not the type to distract herself with idle romance. Maybe the thought of it, but certainly not the act itself.

As much as she loved her people, the thought of _love_ — the "love" she'd seen so commonly depicted in tales like her own — was one that frankly exhausted her.

Strange, then — strange and unsettling — that thoughts of the Azure Dragoon should creep behind her weary eyes; that the dark tones of his voice should haunt her memories.

His name pressed at her lips to be spoken, and she sighed instead, a line crinkling between her brows.

“There is no time for this,” she murmured. “No time at all.”

✦

* * *

 


	4. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, spoilers can appear at any time.
> 
> Certain events in the Heavensward storyline caused Estinien to become ... unavoidably detained. I perceived my character to be utterly furious with this particular development, assuaged only by the calm, steadfast guidance of one Aymeric de Borel. Truth be told? I despised Aymeric at first. I thought he was a slippery snake. When he appeared I literally said to myself: "I've seen enough anime to know where this character's going." He was too pretty. Too stoic. Too dutiful. Too ... pretty. 
> 
> But then, as everything slowly unfolded, and my character relied on him more and more ... I realized I was warming to him. I realized I *liked* him. And before I knew it, I was shipping him with my WoL harder than I'd ever shipped anything before. Also, I realized I wasn't alone. Which was oddly reassuring.
> 
> I assume I'm among friends when I say that, in my personal opinion, Aymeric is the purest cinnamon roll that has ever existed and he must be protected. I of course plan to explore his character in detail, but in the meantime, I can't say it enough.
> 
> Aymeric is pure and good and decent, and I am so glad a character like him exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, here's my WoL confessing some feelings for Ser Aymeric.

* * *

_This scene takes place almost directly after the Main Scenario Quest "As Goes Light, So Goes Darkness."_

* * *

✦

  
The attending guard opened the door to the chamber, revealing the Lord Commander's unexpected guest.

The warrior of light strolled into the room, and as his gaze fell upon her, Ser Aymeric's stoic face brightened. A moment of a smile lifted his lips. "Come in," he said. Though he spoke softly, the gentle, dark notes of his voice filled the chamber. His eyes lit on the knights he’d been advising moments before. "You may leave. I shall send for you after."

As they exited in a chorus of plate mail and boots, he fixed her with his piercing eyes. "Pray enlighten me. What matter did you wish to discuss?" He had come to know her as a woman of few words, and presumed that any reason for private audience must be of great import.

Her dark eyes lifted to meet his and the shadow of a smile touched her lips. "Worry not, Ser Aymeric," she said, her voice smooth and reassuring. "I visit you today for my own purposes, and will not waste any more of your time than is necessary."

His brows lifted. "Consider my curiosity piqued." He examined her face with renewed interest, his cool blue eyes lingering on the way her gaze hardened; the way a faint line creased between her elegant brows.

"Perhaps you should reserve your interest until you have heard my thoughts.”

Aymeric leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. "Peculiar words," he murmured, continuing to study her expression. "But do go on."

She took a breath, closing her eyes. Long black lashes fanned against her cheeks, which were freckled and tanned by long hours spent questing in the sun. "You are unlike any man in my acquaintance," she began. Her voice was soft. "I admit, I was reticent about you at first. You manage to project a sense of icy indifference quite well."

That brought light to Aymeric's eyes and he chuckled, allowing the smile that had been lurking behind his lips to reveal itself. "My lady, when one spends his days accustomed to relentless wintry gales, and so many more glacial dispositions to match, he learns to reserve his truths for those he has more carefully measured."

She met his gaze, and her eyes smoldered with sudden warmth. "In any case I withdraw my first impression," she said, her words coming fast. "I learned quickly that you are a man far beyond reproach."

It could have been a trick of the light, the dim glow of the candles that lit the room, but Ser Aymeric's cheeks appeared to darken. "I can hardly accept such praise," he muttered, managing to hold her gaze. "Least of all from one of Hydaelyn's chosen."

"But I must give it," she said. "I know not what else to do." There was a beat of silence as she took a breath. “Ser— … Aymeric, I …” She trailed off. The words seemed to catch in her throat, and she chuckled, shaking her head. “I never was one for eloquent soliloquies,” she muttered, lifting her eyes to look up at him through her lashes. “Forgive me. I can defeat a primal, yet my words fail me.”

Aymeric’s eyes were fixed on hers, pale blue and gleaming in the candlelight. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

She held his gaze.

“In the Vault,” she began, biting her lower lip. “I-I … To fight alongside you was to know the finest thrill of my life. But the thought of losing you … it … was more than I could bear.”

She fell silent. The candlelight flickered.

When Aymeric spoke, his voice was quiet. “You have come to me tonight to express these sentiments.”

She lowered her eyes. “I am not one to conceal.”

He closed his eyes and sat in silence for a moment longer. “I am taken off-guard,” he admitted. “I had not— I could not anticipate …”

“Take my words as you will,” she said. “It is not often that I feel such … devotion. I simply wished to tell you my truth.”

When he met her gaze, his expression was earnest. “And that I would never deny you. Forgive me. It is simply — I am not accustomed to such revelations.”

She smiled a gentle smile. “Do not let it trouble you,” she said. “If I spoke out of turn then I shall gladly apologize.”

“Not at all,” he murmured, but the look in his eyes was strange. Inscrutable. “I am not … troubled.” The candlelight flickered on his face. “Only surprised.” He continued to study her expression, leaning ever so slightly forward. “Please, do go on.”

 

✦

 

For a moment, she was spellbound, staring into his eyes. “G-go on?” she stammered, her turn to lose composure. Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her eyes. “I hardly believe that is appropriate.”

“Is it not?” He took a quick breath, and she could see the shadow of a rare smile behind his lips. “I am shocked, truly. Had I but known—”

“Forgive me,” she blurted, interrupting him, the color deepening in her cheeks. “I should not have trespassed on your time today.” She shook her head as she turned on her heel, her heart pounding so hard she could feel the pulse in her neck.

His chair made a scraping sound and she knew he was standing, getting to his feet even as she walked away. But her head was swimming. She could hear the blood in her ears, feel it under her skin. Her vision tunneled around the door to the chamber and she could think of nothing but the desperate need to escape.

That is, until she felt his fingers on her arm.

Then she could think of nothing but that point of contact.

“Samantha,” he said softly. She couldn't remember the last time he'd used her given name.

She froze, her willpower torn between the touch of his hand on her shoulder and the sight of the door in front of her.

“I beg you,” he murmured. “Do not be uneasy.” His fingers were warm, the touch tentative and shy against her. “I …” He cleared his throat. “That is to say, I—”

A knock sounded at the door and she nearly jumped out of her skin, swallowing the cry that pressed at her lips. Reflexively, she turned to face him, and met wide blue eyes.

His hand lingered on her shoulder and his eyes held her gaze as he called out. “What is it?”

“Lord Commander,” the attending guard began. “You are needed as soon as you can be spared.”

“I believe that was my cue,” she said, her voice quiet and hoarse. She made to step away from him, but his fingers tensed against her.

“I—” His eyes flickered to the door. “Will expect you tomorrow,” he said quickly. “At this time.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“Now," he said, moving his hand down to rest at her elbow, "Pray, accompany me out into the Congregation.”

✦

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this some time late this past winter. The last bit was added today.


	5. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10/31/2017: Reflections on the past. What is something that thoroughly defines your character in terms of personal history? Lineage? Geographical origin? This can be a scene, snapshot of a moment, or a full on internal monologue, whatever you like. 
> 
> Alternately, what motivates your character? What do they live for? What are they trying to accomplish? What makes their soul sing and their spirit soar, or— what drags them down and makes them feel discouraged?
> 
> Your character, reflecting on a topic of your choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's awkward when you get Echoes from your parents ...  
> ... especially involving their forbidden romance.

* * *

_The following sequence takes place soon after the events of  the Main Scenario Quest, "Stormblood."_

* * *

✦

Sweat.

The hot salt of it slicking her neck, wetting her hair, coating her lips as she panted for breath. The terrain here was hard, crumbly, rough on her joints, but she pressed on, training her body to run through the strain.

Light glittered off the Lochs and she closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on the sound of her heavy breathing, the acrid taste of her own sweat. The sun beat on her face, the dry Gyr Abanian air seeming to suck the moisture from every pore of her body.

 _Gyr Abania_.

She opened her eyes, taking in the crystalline saltwater beside her, the jagged crowns of breathtaking mountains that loomed and ensconced the land.

 _This is my mother’s homeland_ , came the breathless thought.

_My homeland._

Then her eyes screwed shut, pricked with tears, and she scowled against the Echo that itched to overtake her.

* * *

✦

* * *

Cassius mal Magnus thrust back the flap of his field tent and scowled up at the sun, pushing a lock of thick, white-gold hair from his forehead. Calloused fingertips brushed against the pearly third eye in the center of his brow, and he shook his head, squinting and clearing his throat.

Though blurred around the edges, his figure was as she always remembered it: Tall, proud, with the ominous, solemn beauty of a storm.

“Bloody highland sun,” he grumbled to himself in a deep, familiar voice. “I clearly overslept.” Indistinctly, he turned to face his subordinates. Field engineers of various ranks milled around the camp, poring over a small but impressive array of magitek devices.

He cleared his throat again, and those closest to him finally noticed his presence.

Immediately, the heartbeat of camp sped up. Cassius rolled his eyes. In a low tone, he muttered, “It’s not me you fools should worry about; it’s my superiors.” Then he took a breath. “Something better be done,” he shouted. “Otherwise we’ll all have hell to pay.”

A night or so ago they’d received the shipment of faulty medicus equipment which, in all honesty, was beyond his meager team’s capacity to repair. His superiors were well aware, and Cassius knew the assignment for what it was: just one in an ongoing string of tests meant to drive him to his limits. But he was nothing if not determined. He had a solid reputation for succeeding on scraps — a trait his peers seemed to despise.

“I hope my faith and instruction haven’t been misplaced,” he yelled, pointedly approaching his second-in-command.

“No, sir,” the Architectus Ordinum said quickly, saluting. “We’ve made considerable progress, especially given the circumstances.”

Cassius nodded. “Good,” he said softly, meeting the younger man’s eyes. “Excellent work, lux Felicis.”

The second-in-command saluted again, masking the smile that threatened to break out across his face. Cassius was familiar with the incentive to hide one’s true emotions. Obvious _f_ _eelings_  were a luxury in Garlemald; one few could afford, as it often cost the whole of one’s life.

“Now,” Cassius said quickly, much to the Architectus Ordinum’s relief. “Give me your report. We’re due to the Lord Provost on the morrow.”

* * *

✦

* * *

The colors of the Echo suddenly shifted.

A small mountainside watering hole came into focus: Quaint, cozy, fashioned into the foyer of a modest cottage. A rose garden blossomed tenuously out front, well-cared for and quite apparently loved dearly, an impossibility without tender attention in this arid, inhospitable climate.

It was evening. White-hot stars glittered in the pitch of the sky. The warm tones of a fire illuminated the thick-paned windows of the cottage.

The Imperial Praefectus Architectorum stepped through the door, casting long shadows behind him. Pale hair gleamed more golden than white in the firelight, slicked back from his forehead.

“Cassius,” acknowledged the woman behind the bar, the proprietor of the inn. She was very tall, with eyes as black as the night behind him. Those eyes took in every inch of him, quiet and unforgiving.

He nodded in her direction, unfazed, eyes lingering on her as he took his time crossing the room.

“Bryony.”

Neither one of them broke eye contact as he finally took his seat at the bar, the air between them immeasurably tense and electric.

“And what, dare I ask,” she began, quirking one fiercely arched brow, “brings your black shadows into my bar tonight?”

Cassius barked a laugh, his icy eyes glittering in the way he knew fell somewhere between menace and charm.

“My dear girl,” he growled, not daring to break eye contact, “is that any way to speak to your most regular customer?”

Now she laughed, too, silvery, but like a crow’s call all at once. “Please,” she spat, but reached down to fetch him a glass. She held his gaze. “When did _you_  become my most regular customer?”

As she poured his usual poison, he grinned, showing straight, perfect teeth. “When did _this_ —” he gestured around with one large, calloused hand for effect, “become a crowd?”

She narrowed her eyes as she handed him his drink, but took the bait, her eyes flickering fast around the mostly-empty room. Only two villagers sat here tonight, far away in one dark corner, fear already filling their expressions as they glanced in the commanding engineer’s direction.

“It’s certainly not a coincidence,” she hissed, meeting his eyes with renewed vitriol.

His smile only widened. “Oh come now,” he purred. “When have I ever been anything but pleasant?”

Her eyes flashed. “Drink,” she spat.

Obediently, he obliged. As he sipped, his eyes never left her face.

In the background, she noticed the other customers make their quiet, swift exit.

Bryony took her eyes off of Cassius to watch them leave, and couldn’t help the sigh that slipped past her lips. A line creased the smooth, golden-brown skin of her brow.

His glass made a hollow sound as he rested it back on the counter. “I believe you despise my presence tonight.”

She kept her eyes on the door as it closed behind her other clients, letting her expression grow fully sour. “What could have _possibly_ ,” she drew out the word, letting it drip off of her tongue, “given you _that_ idea, Cassius mal Magnus?” She said his name like it was a curse. But she reached for his glass to refill it.

As her fingers closed around the tumbler, his fingers closed around her wrist. His skin looked too pale against hers, like something from another world.

Which, truly, he was.

“Bryony,” he said softly, with reverence, all callous banter gone. His thumb stroked the soft skin just beneath her palm.

She snatched her hand away. “Don’t start,” she warned, fixing her eyes on him. They glittered down at him like black embers, vast as midnight. “You know what my answer will be.”

He looked up at her with eyes the color of a wintry dawn. “And you know you’ve bewitched me,” he muttered, leaning closer.

A slight flush colored her cheeks as she stared down at him, pressing her lips close together. “And,” she said quickly, hoping that he couldn’t sense the pulse of her traitorous heart, “You know that means nothing to me anymore.”

He stood then, suddenly, but graceful and without a sound. At his full height, he was taller than her, looking down at her with tense eyes.  He braced himself against the bar with both hands. “Does it not?”

Her heart was fully pounding, and she couldn’t look away. She made to speak, opening her mouth, but her throat was dry, her voice trapped in silence. She was thankful for the counter separating them.

“Leave,” she finally gasped. “Get out.”

His hands tensed against the bar for a moment and his eyes flashed cold fire.

But he took a step back.

“I haven’t paid,” he said, his dark voice quiet.

She kept her eyes fixed on his face. “Get out,” she whispered.

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he finally turned, stalking slowly toward the door. It was only when he’d stepped through it, letting it close behind him, that she left the shelter of the bar to run across the floor and lock it shut.

Except, he was waiting on the other side. And years of hauling magitek had fortified his body with layers of lean muscle.

She couldn’t hold the door shut against him.

And now the counter between them was gone.

And now he was pulling her into that disarming embrace, so gentle she could cry. And now he was whispering those things he whispered so well. Whispered like he’d whispered that night, weeks ago, when she’d taken him into her bed. When she’d no idea he was one of _them_. When all she knew was that she wanted to touch every inch of his body with her lips.

He ran pale fingers through her long hair, glossy black like raven’s wings.

“Bryony,” he sighed, kissing the shell of her ear with tender lips. “Please. Let me love you.”

She closed her eyes against his scent of oil and fire. Everything in her body was screaming for him. Screaming _yes, Seven Hells yes,_ and she was tired of fighting. But even as her hands traced hungry paths down his back, the counterpoint in her mind rang, clear and bitter.

“It’s forbidden,” she said, her voice sharp with pain and desire. “You and I both know it.”

His arms tightened around her. “Then let us burn,” he growled, his lips moving to her neck.

* * *

✦

* * *

A new vision, blurry, like the edges were shrouded in tears.

Cassius, his fine imperial armor cast off, dressed plainly, a dirty scarf tied around his head.  _Covering his third eye._

And Bryony, tall and beautiful and lithe, with no way to hide the swelling of her belly, full and quickening with child. She wore heavy robes, but the panic in her usually steely eyes was clear. Panic soothed only by Cassius, holding her face in both hands, kissing away her tears.

The two of them, hands clasped together as they ran breathless through the highlands, taking with them only what they could carry.

Flashes of making camp, the forest thickening around them. Cassius felling a beast for their supper. Bryony smoothing a salve onto their bruised, aching limbs.

But when they held each other’s gaze, the love, the electric passion, burning only brighter.

* * *

✦

* * *

The monochrome images stirred, color bleeding into them like spilled ink.

And the Echo was an Echo no more.

“But _father,_ ” Samantha whined, pouting. “I don’t want to _heal_. You know I'd rather fight!”

The crow’s feet around the edges of her father’s friendly blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, belly-laughing down at her. “My little rose,” he bellowed, resting one big hand on the crown of her head. “You can’t fight if you don’t know how to protect yourself.”

She scowled.

Her mother was laughing too, in that throaty way that sounded like birds. “Come, Sammy, let’s practice just a little longer. Then I promise I'll show you some of the black magic I know.”

Samantha wanted to keep frowning, just to spite them, but a twinkle of excitement brightened her expression as she met her mother’s pretty black eyes. “It’s just …” She sighed, giving up. “It’s hard. It’s so hard for me to do white magic. I just wonder if some other kind of magic will be easier?”

Her parents’ eyes met for a quick moment.

“Well,” said her father, his dark voice suddenly serious, “You know I’ve got no magic at all.” He tapped the bandana he kept wrapped around his forehead in the way he always did when he was telling her something solemn. “So it’s very important that you feed your talents.”

Her mother nodded, her sleek black hair pooling around her shoulders. “And trust me, you have every bit as much magic as I did when I was twelve. You just have to be patient. It gets easier as you get older.”

Samantha groaned. “You always say that,” she grumbled.

Her mother pinched her cheek. “And you never listen,” she quipped, pinching harder.

Samantha couldn’t fight the laugh that spilled from her lips, fully shattering her sour expression.

“You’re right,” she said, smiling up at her mother’s beautiful face. “I _am_ pretty stubborn.”

Samantha’s mother giggled, casting a sidelong glance at her father. “That sounds like someone else I know,” she muttered.

“Who?” said her father, playing dumb, scratching his head. He quirked one pale eyebrow, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You?”

Her mother punched him in the arm. _"Cassius,"_ she growled, but he was laughing that belly-laugh again, and Samantha was laughing too.

They were always, always laughing.

* * *

✦

* * *

Her heart pounded in her ears as she doubled over, returning to reality, gasping for breath on the shore of the Lochs.

Tears were streaming from her face.

" _For we who are born into this merciless, meaningless world have but one candle of life to burn_.

 _I know you understand this._ _You and I are one and the same.”_

She choked back the cry that threatened to tear from her lips.

"We are nothing alike," she growled, her throat raw, desperate to clear the taunting voice from her head.

Desperate to fight what she already knew was the truth.

✦

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of another prompt I was asked to provide for my friends, and happily delivered.


	6. Confessions, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our WoL resumes her conversation with Aymeric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a slow-burning candle.

* * *

_The continuation of "Confessions," a series of scenes taking place directly after the Main Scenario Quest "As Goes Light, So Goes Darkness."_

* * *

✦

It was a restless sleep, peppered with nightmares.

_I can defeat a primal, yet my words fail me._

She'd spent the morning agonizing over the things she'd said to Ser Aymeric, the words she'd heretofore promised never to utter. What had possessed her? Why had she done it?

_The thought of losing you ... it ... was more than I could bear._

Because, after  _Haurchefant_ ... after _Estinien_ ... —her heart wrung tightly at the faintest thought. Losing anyone else would quite certainly break her.

There were too many reminders of loss already. Ridiculously, she'd snapped at Artoirel over breakfast, earning a shocked reproach.

"I daresay, my lady," he began, openly dismayed, and just as openly resembling his half-brother. "Had I but known the steel of your tongue, I would have paid no heed to the staff across your back."

Count Edmont snorted into his tea, masking it quickly with a dry cough.

She should have laughed. Would have, except that he sounded too much like Haurchefant. Too much like someone she'd never have the pleasure of hearing from again. She could feel her expression turning sour and censured herself for bringing her own petty wounds to the table. _To_ _his family's table._

"Forgive me," she said, meeting Artoirel's gaze with what she hoped was a deeply repentant look. "I beg of you. I ... am not myself today."

She excused herself with an apologetic glance at Count Edmont, who simply nodded in her direction.

* * *

✦

* * *

As she stalked down the corridor to her guest chambers, she stifled all thoughts of the late, dear Lord from her mind. But thinking on those she could still protect was unsettling in a different way, especially as the hour of resumption with Ser Aymeric approached.

Sitting on the edge of her looming four-poster bed, she yanked heavy wool stockings over her legs, scowling at her reflection in the mirror.

"You are a foul person," she said darkly, staring into her own eyes. "Truly foul." Her eyes flicked to the feather-crowned staff leaning against the armoire, and she could feel lines crinkling into her brow.

 _Fitting, really_. Foul and flare, fume and fire.

She bunched up a thin silk petticoat to slip over her head, scoffing. _And now you must explain yourself to a man who's never done a foul thing in his life._

"I always push things too bloody far," she muttered to herself, smoothing the fabric down over her body. The slip was ink-colored and soft, and she focused on the feeling of it against her skin for just a moment before applying the next layer of clothing.

Robes and belts and boot laces later, the woman looking back at her in the mirror was someone she could almost respect. At least she _looked_ composed. She pulled the hood of her warm winter cloak over her head and tucked a pointed black petasos on top, securing it in place.

Maybe today it could protect her from more than just the snow.

Perhaps now it could shield her from her own emotions.

* * *

✦

* * *

Her breath came fast and her pace sped up as the Congregation of our Knights Most Heavenly came into focus. The light outside was blindingly bright, intensified by the freshly fallen snow. She found herself loosing a sigh of relief as soon as she entered the dark, open chamber, blinking water from her stinging eyes.

"Ah," uttered the guard, bowing in her direction. "Warrior of Light. The Lord Commander is expecting you."

She bowed back, forcing down the sudden pounding of her heart, quickly wiping her runny nose. "Thank you," she sputtered, painfully aware of herself. "Please let him know that I've arrived."

He bowed again and turned to open the chamber, announcing her presence.

"Show her in," said a muffled, familiar voice.

She shoved her hands into the folds of her robe as she strode into the room. Flinched as the door clicked shut behind her. Forced her pace to steady and her shoulders to relax as she lifted her eyes to meet the blue ones staring at her from across the room.

"Welcome," he said softly, that shadow of a smile hiding behind his lips. He stood from his chair, beginning to approach her. "I do hope you are well today."

She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, stopping several paces away. "I am," she said, sincerely surprised to find her voice. "And I hope the same is true for you."

He apparently held no reservations in closing the distance between them, stopping well within arm's reach. She tried not to focus on the shape of his mouth as he spoke.

"I believe we left off on tenuous footing," he began, the smooth tone and charisma of his voice entirely the opposite of the previous day's stammering hesitation. "For that, I would like to apologize."

She blinked. "What?"

He held her gaze, unflustered. "Unless I am mistaken," he continued, picking his words with care, "You wished to express a certain set of ... sentiments to me." He paused. She noticed as he wet his lips. He took a breath, but never looked away. "As I believe I mentioned, I am unfamiliar with such disclosures. It is not ..." A faint line creased between his brows. "I find that I tend to inspire a certain ... formality," he muttered, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. "Which perhaps precludes more ... personal relationships."

She knew she should say something instead of staring at him in silence, but it was difficult to believe this was a real conversation. "Forgive me," she said, trying to think more clearly, trying to derail him just a bit. "Are you telling me that I am the only person who has ever felt devotion to you?"

And, indulgently, he laughed. The sound of it, the light in his expression; it wrung her heart in a way she hadn't thought possible. "Indeed, I am not," he conceded, but the sparkle in his eyes hardened to a solemn gleam as he held her gaze. "But I believe what I mean to say is—well... that a certain devotion ... from _you_ of all people ..."

He cleared his throat, and looked away. "It is not often that I am at a loss for words."

Her heart throbbed in her chest, a blush creeping across her face. "Then are we to stand here in silence?" she said, chewing on her bottom lip. "Because I often find that words escape me."

He looked back at her with wide eyes and laughed again. "I have noticed."

"Fantastic," she quipped, mortified to feel the blush on her cheeks growing deeper. "Then you realize how disadvantaged I am in this situation."

There was a beat of silence as he took a breath, lowering his eyes.

"Quite the contrary," he said. His voice was very warm.

She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears as he looked down at her with an unreadable expression. It took every onze of her willpower to meet that gaze.

"I hold an advantage?" she asked, surprised by her own voice. "... How?"

The space between them seemed to shrink, his eyes staring through her.

"In every way I can imagine," he said softly.

✦

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lord Commander," came the guard's voice ...


	7. Third Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are each of us as different as one day is from the next.

* * *

✦

* * *

 

That night, she dreamt of rainfall in Rootslake, hunting frogs with her father, braiding daisies to wear as crowns across their foreheads.

Once, when she was little, she’d asked him about the queer way he wrapped his head. She’d never once seen the skin above his brows.

“I’ll tell you when you’re able to understand,” he’d said, the low notes of his voice dismissive. But it had been strange enough, ominous enough, to stick in the back of her mind.

Over the years of her childhood she watched him carefully, wondering when he’d slip up; wondering when he’d forget the bandana, revealing that mysterious piece of hidden porcelain-pale skin.

But he never did.

When Samantha came to her mother with questions, Bryony’s face darkened for a moment—quick, but not quick enough. She laughed lightly and said in a voice that was far too casual: “It’s not important.” But then she looked hard into Samantha’s eyes. “Trust me,” she said, and this time it sounded sincere. “If it mattered, you’d know.”

 

✦

 

It was a rainy summer morning. She was fourteen years old and had just woven the most beautiful flower crown of her entire life: red and black roses with velvet-green ivy. She was turning it around in her hands, admiring her craftsmanship, when big fingers stole it away.

“Father!” she cried, grasping helplessly at the empty space he’d left behind. “Give that back!”

Cassius laughed loudly, his pale eyes sparkling down at her as he held the crown just out of reach. “For me?” he teased. “You shouldn’t have.”

She jumped up, swiping for it, coming back empty.

He laughed harder and nestled the flowers down over his thick, white-gold locks.

“There,” he sighed, very dramatic. “Now I can _finally_ be as beautiful as you and your mother.”

Though she couldn’t help the ugly laugh that tore from her throat, she still had a mission. And somewhere over the past year she’d grown tall enough to reach the top of his head.

With one final, desperate lunge, she snatched back the crown, and her father’s bandana came along with it.

His eyes grew wide and he covered his brow with the palm of his hand, but not fast enough. She’d seen the pearly sphere, set into the center of his forehead like a jewel on a diadem. And she knew exactly what it was.

“You’re an imperial,” she choked, the words catching in her throat, the rose crown slipping from her fingers.

“No, my pet,” he said softly, using the voice that reminded her of big warm hugs and bedtime stories. “I am a Garlean. I haven’t been an imperial for nearly fifteen years.”

Her heart was pounding as she stared at her father’s sharp, handsome features, confusion swarming in her heart.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she accused. Though somewhere, deep down, the spark of realization, the sense that she’d _always_ known, was hot and solemn.

“Because I knew this would happen,” he said, matter-of-fact. There was a deep sadness flooding his expression and she could barely meet his eyes. “And I never wanted _you_ to look at me like this.”

She turned away like she’d been struck, gasping for a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “But you’re one of _them,_ ” she said, unable to stop the stream of consciousness.

“I am from Garlemald,” he said calmly, and out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand reach down to pick up the crown. “Just as these roses are from your mother’s garden. But not a single one of them,” he murmured, touching each blossom, “is the same as any other. We are each of us as different as one day is from the next.”

She closed her eyes, hot tears dripping from the corners. “But why,” she wept, the outline of her father's face blurred when she looked back up at him. “Why you?”

“Because none of us can choose where it is that we come from,” he said sternly, reaching to grab both of her shoulders. She blinked away her tears to meet his fierce gaze. “But all you need to know, my darling, is this.” His eyes roved over her face, and he took a steadying breath. “I love you and your mother more than my own life. I knew what treasures I’d found in Eorzea. And nothing in this world, not even my own blood, was going to keep me from them.”

A quiet sob guttered in her throat and he pulled her tight against him, hugging her close.

“Never, ever forget how much I love you,” he said softly. “Promise.”

She buried her face into his chest. “I promise,” she whispered.

✦

* * *

 

 

 

 


	8. Mourning Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha and Artoirel share a moment of grief for their lost loved one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm truly sorry for the title, but ... I had to.)

* * *

_Chronologically, a continuation of "Confessions, Pt. II."_

* * *

 ✦

When Artoirel entered the dining room the next morning, he was surprised to find his favorite breakfast tea fully brewed, warm, and waiting for him on the table.

 Samantha was leaning against his usual chair, holding the sugar bowl and giving him a shy half-smile.

 “What’s this?” he asked, meeting her gaze with curious sapphire eyes.

 Gently, she dropped one tawny cube of sugar into his teacup, as per his taste. “Consider it atonement for the other morning,” she said, reaching over to pick up the pot. She poured him a cup and stepped aside, gesturing widely to his seat.

 He couldn’t help the grin that quirked up the corners of his mouth. “In that case, won’t you join me? I would hate to enjoy this by myself.”

 She pulled up the chair across from him, taking her tea with milk. For a warm, familiar moment, they sipped in silence.

 Then, as she nested her cup back into its saucer, she sighed.

“I miss him.”

 The three words fell from her lips unbidden, punctuating the calm.

 Artoirel ran a solitary fingertip along the lip of his cup.

 “Me too,” he finally murmured, resting his hand on the table. His long fingers curled into a loose fist. “So much that, at times … I can hardly bear it.”

 For a moment, neither of them spoke, letting Haurchefant’s absence fill the silence.

 Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha noticed someone standing just outside. She glanced over to see Count Edmont, his back to them, leaning stiffly against the doorframe.

 When she turned back to Artoirel, he was looking at his hand, his lips pressed tight together, the muscles in his jaw clenched as he tried to contain his emotions.

  _A smile better suits a hero._

 She reached over to cover his hand with hers, and her eyes filled with tears.

 Artoirel met her gaze. His eyes were wet.

 “He wouldn’t want us to mourn,” he said softly.

 She nodded. “I know. But I think …” She closed her eyes, allowing the tears to stream down her cheeks. “I think it’s okay to cry.”

 Artoirel made a soft sound. When she opened her eyes, his tears were falling, too.

 He clasped her hand tightly, meeting her gaze with red-rimmed sapphire eyes. She squeezed his hand back.

 “If you say so," he murmured, "then perhaps it is."

✦

* * *

 


	9. Confessions, Pt. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She just got a letter. Wonder who it's from?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set-up for the next prompt I want to tackle.

* * *

  _The "Confessions" storyline continues._

* * *

✦

“Samantha?” It was Count Edmont’s voice, coming from the foyer.

She was in the parlor, paging through a musty Ishgardian spell book she’d found gathering dust in the library. For the past half-hour she’d been struggling through a ruthlessly complex passage describing lesser arcana. Blinking hard and closing the tome, she called out. “Yes?”

His heels made a solid sound against the floor as he strode into the room. “This letter’s just arrived for you directly,” he said, holding out a neat rectangle of parchment.

Her eyebrows rose as she looked from the envelope, up to his night-blue eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I received correspondence,” she quipped, reaching over to accept the letter. “Least of all delivered by the head of the House.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I was intrigued by the seal,” he admitted with a note of embarrassment. “But I shall pry into your business no longer.” He bowed, excusing himself from the chamber.

Bewildered, she flipped the envelope over in her hands. Nothing was written on the outside.

It was sealed with a dollop of vivid ultramarine wax, embossed with a stamp she didn’t immediately recognize. With careful fingers, she peeled up the hard, flattened droplet and removed the letter’s contents: a single, snow-white sheet of paper, folded twice. It was heavy stock, with some tooth against her fingertips. She smoothed the paper between her thumbs and forefingers as she unfolded it.

The words on the page were written in extraordinarily neat calligraphy:

\- - - - - - - - - - 

_To one Mme Floravale;_

_I am writing_ _to_ _formally request_  
the Honor of your presence  
_at the Borel Manor_  
_on the Fifth Evening of this Moon_  
at eight  
_to share tea and company._

 _With Warm Regards,  
_ Aymeric de Borel

\- - - - - - - - - - 

She read the invitation once. Twice.

Stared at it for far longer than was necessary given the small volume of words on the page.

Forcing calm, she folded the paper back along its creases and nestled it into the envelope. As she closed the flap, she examined the wax seal more closely, finally noticing the embossed " _A"_ hidden among intricate curling filigree florets and fleur de lis.

It wasn’t until she was at her desk, retrieving paper and a pen of her own, that her heart started to pound.

She uncapped a well of midnight ink, dipping in a quill.

 _Ser Ayme—_ she began to pen, but her hand was trembling. The brush tip tripped, leaving behind a shiny, dark swath.

She crumpled the paper, pulling out another.

 _Ser Aymeric;_ she penned. Then she took a deep breath.

_It would be my pleasure to join you on the evening of the Fifth._

Her hand was trembling. She replaced the quill in the inkwell to prevent further casualties, then ran both hands through her hair.

Another deep breath.

Picking the quill back up, she finished:

_I shall see you after dinner._

She chewed on her bottom lip as she wondered about the closing. Uncrumpling the paper from before, she jotted:

_Sincerely –?_

_Warmly –?_

He’d already used the word “warm." Maybe something else.

_… With Pleasure –?_

No. She scratched that one out. One pleasure was enough.

She crumpled the paper back up again, throwing it out of the way. Then she put down the pen and stared at the words she’d written.

_Ser Aymeric;_

_It would be my pleasure to join you on the evening of the Fifth.  
_ _I shall see you after dinner._

Biting her lip, she dipped the quill back into the inkwell.

 _With Gratitude,  
_ _Samantha R. Floravale_

✦

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing scenes like this.


	10. Verbiage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classic Alphinaud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself sleepy writing this.

* * *

_Chronologically, a continuation from the previous chapter._

* * *

✦

Every inch of her body ached.

_Just finish channeling to the aetheryte. Then you can sleep._

\- - - - - - - - - -

It had been a long day of diplomacy, travelling from Gridania to Coerthas and back again. And then the late buzz in from Alphinaud. Some matter of business he’d wished to discuss at the Rising Stones, which ran over-long as expected.

Toward the end of their meeting, they were touring the long hall of the Solar at a very slow pace, side by side. Alphinaud was speaking at length about a tangential event on which, though amusing and phrased with his usual eloquence, Samantha was having tremendous difficulty staying focused.

“Forgive me,” she interrupted, coming to a halt. “I realize this is very rude, but…” She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to sit down. “I simply must beg your pardon for the remainder of the evening.” She turned her eyes to meet his surprised expression. “You deserve my undivided attention and, at present, it is not within my power to give. It has been a _very_ long day.”

“Upon my word,” he said softly, taking a hard look at her face. “Why didn’t you stop me sooner?”

He’d grabbed her hand and led her quickly to the great room, pulling out a chair. With a tremendous amount of unnecessary fussing, he’d forced her to take a seat and gone to fetch her some refreshment.

“It is I who am at fault,” he said sheepishly, handing her a heavy mug filled with tea leaves and steaming water. As she accepted it, he looked down at her with solemn, stormy eyes. “You mustn’t allow me to continue waxing on like that while you suffer in silence.” He shook his head, lowering his eyes, and a light blush colored his porcelain cheeks. “It is all too easy to get carried away with you.”

That made her chuckle. “Alphinaud, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings." She rested her palm on his forearm for effect. “But you get carried away with everyone.”

When he was embarrassed, he pursed his lips in a way that caused shallow dimples to appear in his cheeks.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, his eyes flicking back to hers for a moment. “But I fear that, given the volume of time we spend together …” He cleared his throat. “It is almost certainly _you_ who must bear the brunt of my unchecked verbiage.”

She snorted, squeezing his arm tight before leaning back in her chair. “And I hope you trust that it is typically my pleasure,” she reassured him. She didn’t notice the blush on his cheeks deepen as she closed her eyes, and gave a tired sigh. “But today, I'm afraid, has been anything but typical.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

She was jarred out of her reflection by the sensation of solid ground beneath her feet.

Her breath plumed out in a white cloud against the darkness.

She hunched over, shrugging deeper into her cloak as she made the final march across the Pillars to the House Fortemps.

✦

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An example of an unplanned scene I never "anticipated."  
> I just sat down to write after work today, and this came out.
> 
> And that, my friends, is why you should always push yourself to write, even when you don't feel like it!
> 
> It may not be that fantastic scene you've always wanted to tackle, but it will be something ... and you might quite like it.


	11. Confessions, Pt. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fasten your seatbelts ... the ride is about to begin.

* * *

_The "Confessions" storyline continues._  

* * *

✦

It was seven forty-four on the fifth night of this, the Sixth Astral Moon.

And she was expected at eight.

Her blood rushed in her ears as she started the walk to the Borel Manor, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders.

Outside, it was dark and biting cold, each breath bringing a bitter chill to her lungs. The sky was overcast, clouds heavy with snow, and she could smell the smoke of so many fires, warming so many hearths. If she’d learned anything during her time here in Ishgard, it was that there would be a storm tonight.

She shivered, walking faster.

Up to now, she’d done everything she could to avoid thinking about this night. But, with the evening itself upon her, and the distance to her destination shrinking by the second, she could put it off no longer.

_Tea._

_With …_ She shivered again.

What exactly were his intentions?

She scoffed.

_What are **mine?**_

If she didn’t have an answer for herself, she couldn’t expect one from him.

She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head.

That was when the image of Estinien appeared, unbidden, against her eyelids.

With a shocked breath she looked back into the night, blinking away what could only be tears.

_I can’t think of this right now._

Her breath plumed before her, thick and white, her heart skipping heavy beats.

_He’s gone._

She couldn’t allow herself the hope that, maybe, he could be saved.

Not now. _Not ever._

She tamped down her feelings, crushing them into a dark, frozen corner of her heart.

_Think of those you yet can save._

And when she looked up, the entrance to the Borel Manor was within sight.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Waiting on the stoop, she shifted her weight between her feet, restless and unsettled.

Her breath caught as the handle clicked, the hinges creaked, and she was shocked to find Aymeric himself revealed behind the door.

“Welcome, my friend,” he said warmly, wearing an expression she’d never seen before. His voice, too, was filled with something new. Was it comfort? Ease? “Please, come inside.”

She stepped over the threshold in a rustle of heavy robes. He shut the door behind her, and as she made to unfasten the cloak clasped around her neck, Aymeric reached over.

“Please, allow me,” he insisted, meeting her surprised glance with an earnest gaze. Raising her eyebrows, she lowered her hands, allowing him to unwrap the cloak from her shoulders and hang it on the rack by the door.

“This embroidery is almost certainly Ishgardian,” he observed, casting her a sidelong glance as he arranged it neatly on a hook.

She nodded. “It was a gift,” she said, slipping her arms from the fleece she’d worn beneath the cloak. “From Count Edmont. Though …” She cleared her throat. “I believe he was put up to it by his son.” She bit her lip, not yet brave enough to say his name.

Aymeric inclined his head. “Lord Haurchefant,” he deduced.

She shrugged the fleece off of her shoulders, closing her eyes for a moment. “We were just speaking the other day of how he wouldn’t want us to mourn, but…” When she looked up, Aymeric’s eyes were bearing down on her, suddenly full of concern. Her heart skipped a beat. “I find that it happens at the slightest provocation.”

He reached out to take the fleece gently from her hands, where she’d been wringing it.

“I believe there is no shame in feeling so strongly,” he murmured, turning to find a second coat hook. Then he cast her another sidelong glance. “Though I suspect some part of you might disagree.”

_He wasn’t wrong._

She wet her lips. “Truthfully, I can’t say why,” she admitted. “But I often—” She paused, trying to come up with the right phrase. “I suppose I’d rather be taciturn than utterly aflame.”

He turned full to face her, eyebrows high. “I am shocked to hear this from the lips of an astral sorceress,” he said, a note of humor in his tone.

She quirked a brow back. “Umbral as well,” she jibed, looking up at him through her lashes. “You cannot have one aspect without the other.”

“Forgive me, but I have seen my share of ice,” he said softly. “And you are far too warm to be shaped of it.”

On cue, a hot blush colored her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “I came here for tea,” she said loudly. “Not to have my convictions called into question.”

He laughed, his eyes sparkling down at her. “Come, then,” he said, offering her an arm. “Let us retire to the parlor.”

She looped her arm through his crooked elbow and, gently, he pulled her close. With the warmth of his body beside her, she felt small, even though she easily stood as tall as his shoulders. She chuckled, shaking her head.

He glanced down at her through the corner of his eye. “What?”

“It’s not often that I feel so small,” she confessed.

They were approaching the threshold of a warmly lit room. “Is this one of those rare times?”

She tilted her head. “It is,” she said, allowing her voice to be soft. “I’m not sure which I prefer.”

_But it’s worth it to feel him this close beside me._

They were crossing into the parlor now. “As long as feeling small does not equate to feeling unpleasant,” he said, glancing down at her.

“Certainly not,” she assured.

It was a comfortable room. Rugs with intricate designs lined the floor, arranged with high-backed armchairs that were upholstered in dark, soothing colors. A fire crackled in the hearth. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes and artifacts alike. Back in the corner, toward a window darkened by the night outside, was a wide table; perhaps somewhere he read, or wrote letters.

He led her to a set of two armchairs, with a low table between them.

There rested a delicate ceramic tea setting, well-appointed with sugar bowl and creamer, and two cups and saucers.

When he spoke again, excitement made his voice hitch. “I hope you have a taste for Ishgardian tea,” he said, his words coming in a rush. “It is my favorite preparation. Though of course it would be my pleasure to begin another brew for you if it does not suit your palette.”

“Luckily I’ve never met a tea I didn’t like,” she said, letting her eyes twinkle at him.

A smile spread across his lips and he took the seat to her left, putting him at a comfortable diagonal across.

“Then I am sure you will be pleased with this one,” he said softly, reaching to pour them each a cup. The liquid was milky, rosy-tan, and fragrant. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the scent as he handed her a serving, smiling on reflex.

“Thank you,” she said, truly grateful.

He inclined his head to her, fixing her with those piercing blue eyes. “No, thank _you,_ ” he began, cradling his teacup in one long-fingered hand. “Quite profoundly, for accepting my invitation. I do not often entertain company. Not for lack of want,” he clarified. “But rarely am I so inspired to solicit it.”

She took a sip of the warm, floral drink, allowing a flattered smile to lift her lips. “Then I am doubly honored, to have earned something so valuable.”

He hadn’t broken her gaze, hadn’t sipped his tea; was only watching her with an inscrutable expression. “The tea is to your taste, then?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously. “Oh yes,” she said, letting every earnest feeling color her voice. “It is delightful.”

It was a small smile that lifted the corners of his mouth, but one so warm that it melted her heart.

She swallowed hard.

“I must confess, I am—” She paused, thinking of what it was exactly that she wanted to say. Her eyes moved slowly across his face, tracing his figure in the chair. He was dressed in a tunic of muted brown and cobalt, decorated with silver filigree, slung with a loose belt. He looked almost slight without his armor, but something about that was doubly endearing.

He set his cup and saucer back down on the table to rest his arms in his lap. “You are—?” His gaze was quizzical.

“Surprised,” she said finally, also setting down her cup and saucer. “To be here, with you,” she clarified. “Especially after your disclosure about your history with more … personal relationships."

His expression softened, the look in his eyes unfathomable. “I am surprised  _you_ are here, with me,” he leveled, and this time, hiseyes took her in, moving slowly from her face, down her shoulders, to the hands folded in her lap. “With you, there is an …ease. A rapport that I don’t often feel. You will have to forgive me for being so frank, but it is so.” He shook his head, lowering his eyes. “And pray excuse my inelegance. But it is not often that I— … Rather, it has been quite some time since I have enjoyed such pleasant company.”

The blush on her cheeks was hot and undoubtedly obvious. She lowered her eyes and took a breath. “I feared that my admissions the other day— … Would have had quite the opposite effect.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But, here we are, sharing tea no less.”

“To put your mind even further at ease,” he said softly, “I have wished to share tea with you for quite some time.”

She looked up to meet tense blue eyes. He was closer than expected, leaning toward her, diminishing the distance between them ever so slightly.

“I hope—” his voice faltered. “I should very much _like_ —to get to know you better.”

She held his gaze against the fluttering of her heart, feeling even more blood rush to her face. Then she chuckled, trying to still the uneven rhythm in her chest. “You must let me know if I improve on closer acquaintance.”

His eyes were very warm. It was unbearable. “Some may say you are already remarkable.” There was a gentle humor in his tone, as though he could anticipate her reaction.

And indeed, it made her laugh. “All they see is the glory, Ser,” she said, grateful to be momentarily distracted. She gave him a conspiratorial glance. “The shining façade. They see who they want to see.” She knew her eyes were burning as she looked up at him through her lashes, letting a spark break through, letting some part of herself finally come aflame against her will. “But they don’t know me. Not _me._ ”

Rapt with interest, his lips parted ever so slightly. “And could I know _you?”_

“Is that what you want?” She was leaning closer to him now, too. “To see beyond the fabled _Warrior of Light?_ ”

His eyes flicked between hers, and he wet his lips. “I want to try,” he said, very earnest. “And I am not accustomed to failure.”

She smiled, biting her lip. “Then you may try,” she said softly. “But I can make you no promises.”

He took a breath, holding her gaze. Leaned ever-so-slightly closer.

She could see every color in his eyes, the flecks of ice and silver, cerulean and ultramarine. There was the straight line of his nose, the arch of his eyebrows, the fall of the rook-black hair on his brow.

But it was the power of his gaze that pulled her in, scalding hot and fathomless; laying her bare, as though he could see straight through to her soul and unearth the secrets there.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

And then, so gently, like something from a dream, one of his hands was touching her jaw, her neck; wrapping around to the base of her skull.

She could feel the way his fingers trembled against her, the delicate warmth of his breath on her lips. “I—…” He faltered, lowering his eyes, the tip of his nose brushing hers. “May I…?”

The words caught in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes squeezed shut and she immediately opened them again, desperate to witness this moment.

When she spoke, their lips brushed together.

“Please,” she whispered.

And carefully, he closed that breath of distance between them.

✦

* * *

 


	12. Waxless and Wickless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into some history with Estinien. Includes spoilers for Heavensward.  
> Also includes what could be classified as very mild smut? Vaguely Estinien third-person POV?
> 
> I hope to expand on this more in the future, but essentially her relationship with Estinien was founded on seeking comfort in a chaotic mental, emotional, and physical landscape. He was an unexpected source of stability ... which of course then suddenly vanished. After losing so many others in such a short span of time, the loss of Estinien completely shattered her. 
> 
> It took a very long time to piece herself back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backtracking. Almost a flashback, in a sense.  
> I never promised this would be chronological.

* * *

_Oriented around the events of the Main Scenario Quest, “Into the Aery.”_

* * *

✦

It started in the Mists, while they were negotiating peace with Nidhogg’s brother. So many times, Hraesvelgr shut them out. So many times, Ysayle and Alphinaud would walk in solemn, thoughtful solitude. And so many times, Estinien would isolate himself from the rest of them.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It was close to midnight.

Alone in his tent, Estinien sat awake, sleep eluding him as usual.

The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he sensed someone approach. Hands reflexively found and tensed on the body of his lance, and he fixed his eyes on the mouth of his tent.

The flap pushed back, revealing the moonlit face of the Warrior of Light. Her long hair bunched around her shoulders as she hunched over and invaded his privacy.

“What are you doing?” he muttered, his dark voice tense.

Light flickered between her fingertips, drawing his gaze, and he noticed she was holding a tiny spark there. She scowled over at him, her face illuminated by firelight.

“I can’t find Alphinaud or Ysayle, and I don’t want to be alone,” she grumbled.

Estinien closed his eyes against the words, stone-faced. “I do not desire company.”

He could hear the soft rustling of her robes as she found a seat in spite of him. “I don’t care,” she said. “I know you can’t sleep, and I’m selfish. So here I am.”

Estinien opened his eyes to find her kneeling across from him. The spark suspended in her left palm was now a candle’s flame, waxless and wickless.  

“Can you feel it?” he murmured, tilting his head toward the fire. He watched it flutter, casting shadows in the tent.

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “Well, yes,” she admitted, turning her dark eyes to look at it too. It danced slowly, as only flame can do. “It feels warm.” A smile touched the corners of her lips. “And of course I have to keep it burning, so I can sense it plucking at my aether.” She studied the flame for a moment. “But something this small, it feels like—” she paused for a moment, thinking. “—the tug of a single hair pulled taut. Or a hangnail,” she added, making herself chuckle.

A smile tickled his lips but he shook his head instead, watching as she used her free hand to unfasten the cloak around her shoulders. Beneath it she wore a long plain nightgown that gathered in deep folds around her bare toes. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her in nightclothes on their travels, but it always surprised him; somehow too unassuming for a sorceress who could conjure fire.

She noticed his appraisal and nodded to the simple white shirt and trousers he’d worn to bed.

“I’m happy to see you don’t sleep in your armor,” she quipped. “I was concerned.”

The smile hiding behind his lips broke to the surface for a split second, before the stony countenance returned. “Too many moving parts,” he said quietly.

She smiled back at him. Then she closed her eyes.

They sat together, listening to the sounds of the Mists around them; wind and silence, punctuated by the distant, heavy beat of dragon wings.

After a long moment, he heard her take a breath. “I am sorry for intruding,” she said, her voice very soft. “But I am happy for the chance to sit with you.”

He was surprised to find that his eyes had drifted shut; that a comfortable haze had settled over his tumultuous mind. He looked up to find her studying his face.

“I …” he paused, meeting her gaze. When he finally spoke, his dark voice was warm. “I am … happy you are here.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Midnight talks, just the two of them. Short and long: details of moments from childhoods, descriptions of fears. Tales of nightmares, hopes, and dreams.

Long, hard days of negotiations, of fighting, of travel, of failure. Then the fleeting peace of those sleepless nights, with just the breadth of the tent between them, filled with the comfort of their stories, or simple shared silence.

They had similar souls. Waxless and wickless, burning of their own devices. Both of them taciturn, both aching, both ripped raw inside.

Both of them boiling just beneath the surface.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The bloody business was done. His armor was stained to prove it. Nidhogg was slain, but he’d left behind a swath of mysteries in his wake—and now only his brother, Hraesvelgr, could answer for them.

The party departed the Aery into a crushing night, victorious, yet heavy-hearted.

He’d wanted to go to Zenith, to confront Hraesvelgr directly. But the rest of them were weary. Samantha’s eyes held a warning reflected by a glance at Ysayle, whose pale gaze flashed in Alphinaud’s direction. And, though he hid it well, the boy was exhausted.

“Let us return to camp,” Estinien had said, his voice strained with the urgency he felt to _keep going._

But, for Alphinaud’s sake, he wouldn’t.

He’d try to rest.

\- - - - - - - - - -

He was wiping the last of the black wyrm’s blood from his neck when she burst into his tent, as always, uninvited. A line creased in his brow and he’d wet his lips to speak, to tell her to go, that he needed to be alone tonight.

But she hadn’t stopped moving.

She’d closed all of the distance between them, so close now that he could feel her warmth. 

And then she’d grabbed his neck, his jaw. Wide, burning eyes searched his face.

And then she’d crushed her lips against his.

He couldn’t breathe. Every subterranean ache came surging to the surface, raw and metallic.

His teeth pulled at her bottom lip as he jerked away, making a low sound in his chest. “What are you doing?” His voice was quiet and clipped, but even he could feel the fire smoldering in his eyes.

She ran tensed fingers up the back of his neck, twining them in long silver hair. “Just kiss me,” she murmured.

He hesitated for only a moment.

Then the calloused pads of his thumbs pressed into her skin as he took her face in both hands, covering her mouth with his.

His teeth scraped against her lips, her chin, her throat; her hands scrambled for purchase on his neck, his shoulders, anywhere she could hold on to. One hand unfastened the broach at her collarbone and the cloak fell from her shoulders, crushed beneath her as he shoved her down.

She looked up at him, breathless, eyes wide, her hair spread in a dark halo against the ground.

Then his mouth was back on her neck and she gasped, checking the cry that almost tore from her lips. Blunt teeth pulled at her earlobe and her eyes screwed shut.

Her fingertips were scraping down his spine when he resurfaced and he shuddered, breathing hard. “We must stop,” he said, the words coming fast, ragged in his throat.

She shook her head. “Please, don’t,” she begged, moving her hands back up his shoulders to rest on the nape of his neck.

His heart was pounding as he looked down at her, from where he knelt above. Everything in his body was screaming _listen to her_ and the tatters of his self-control were shredding apart.

“I want to keep going,” he admitted, his voice low and husky with the proof of it. He leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, taking a breath. “But I doubt we are thinking clearly.”

He felt the warmth of her breath on his lips as she checked herself too. Then the pressure of her lips on his cheek. “You’re right,” she whispered in his ear. “But I don’t want to think clearly. Not tonight.”

He closed his eyes. The heat, the tension should have been ebbing from his body. But it wasn’t. He leaned back to meet her gaze with a strained expression, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. “Is that wise?”

“No,” she conceded. But she pulled herself up to kiss him again.

There it was; another crack in the surface; another torrent of longing so powerful he felt it in his marrow. He knew his kiss was fierce, painful, his teeth bruising the surface of her skin. But she was opening these gates and she had a right to know the truth.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he said, confessing his final reservation. “I—” He cleared his throat, lowered his head; pressed his mouth against her neck. “I fear I am a beast, barely contained.”

Her hands tensed against his neck, sliding slowly down his back. Her lips beside his temple, she murmured, “I am not afraid.” And then, in a tone he’d never heard before, “I have seen my share of beasts, Estinien. Surely I can handle just one more.”

He pulled back to find her face flushed, lips swollen from his attentions. And her dark, hooded eyes, the _look_ in her eyes; it was enough to drive him mad.

His final thread of self-control pulled taut.

He took a sharp breath; brushed open lips against her mouth. “I have given you my warning,” he said softly.

She kissed him, tenderly, taking his face in both hands. “Then there is nothing more left to be said.”

✦

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on drawing a "cover" for this work! I'm pretty excited about it.


	13. Confessions, Pt. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and memories of the recent past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/14/2017: "This time, run."

 

* * *

 _... and we return to the “Confessions” storyline._

* * *

 ✦

Estinien was walking slowly, agonizingly slowly, to the fallen sword.

He was going to pluck the eye from its hilt.

_No!_

She tried to scream, tried to move, tried to do _anything,_ but she was frozen, forced back into the scene that haunted her nightmares.

Before she could stop him, he was holding the eyes in both hands.

_NO!!!_

When he spoke, his voice was tired. So tired.

The sound of it twisted her heart.

_"With this task accomplished, my toils shall finally … be at an end.”_

She knew what happened next. Tried to close her eyes against it. But this was her mind’s eye, and there was no escape.

A dark crimson blur of fear and pain. The throb of her heart.

The terror spread across his face.

The pulse of tangled, heavy veins and sinew, binding the eyes to Estinien’s limbs.

And the shade of Nidhogg, erupting from his body in a mist of blood and smoke.

\- - - - - - - - - -

She woke, gasping, drenched in a cold sweat.

Wild eyes scanned the room, the familiar Ishgardian furniture, the colors of the House Fortemps.

She panted heavy breaths. Threw the covers from her body. Swung her legs over the edge of the bed to curl over her knees, clutching her belly.

 _Estinien._  

She sobbed, swallowing down the bitter bile in her throat.

Even through her heavy nightgown, the fingers curled against her stomach were cold as ice.

She pulled back to look down at her hands. They were covered in a fine frost.

Gulping another breath, she closed her eyes. Hot tears dripped down her cheeks as she channeled her aether, focusing it down into the pit of her stomach.

She reached for the astral aspect, waited for that familiar gnawing power. And then the base of her spine warmed like an ember, pulsing heat, easing the umbral web that had settled over her body.

When she opened her eyes, the frost had already melted.

She flexed her fingers, wiped the tears from her face. With a sigh, she released the fire-aspected aether from her belly.

 _The nightmare, again_.

And after tonight, of all nights.

She closed her eyes again as warm memories, mere hours past, pressed against her eyelids.

\- - - - - - - - - -

As he pulled away, he was blushing, smiling, laughing softly.

“Forgive me,” Aymeric said again, and as he met her gaze, he gave a slight shake of his head. “I— I’ve no idea what came over me.”

She could still feel the soft pressure of his lips and she was afraid to move, afraid it might banish the sensation. But she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

“Please, don’t apologize,” she said, surprised at the strength of her voice. She’d thought herself breathless.

His expression was bashful, and absolutely enchanting. “I do not mean to be forward,” he muttered, his voice soft. “But I fear I—” He cleared his throat, reaching for his tea. “Is it quite appropriate to use the phrase ‘I couldn’t resist?’”

That made her laugh. It was a raw, ugly sound, and she blushed as soon as it left her lips. But the smile on his face only widened, and that gave her some courage.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I don’t believe it’s _ever_ inappropriate to call someone irresistible.” A spark of mischief lit her tone. “Unless of course you don’t mean it.”

A blend of amusement and mild concern colored his expression. “I assure you, my lady. I am always sincere.”

She reached for her tea, quirking an eyebrow, giving him a solemn nod. “If you say so.”

He was watching her with twinkling eyes. “What was it you mentioned earlier?” he began, the phantom of a smile lifting the corners of his lips. “That you came here for tea, not an interrogation?”

She smiled even as she bit her lip, and the twinkle in his eyes brightened.

He took a sip from his cup, looking at her through his lashes.

\- - - - - - - - - -

She breathed, clearing away the edges of the memory.

_Sleep._

Tomorrow is a new day.

Tomorrow is a new dawn.

✦

* * *

 


	14. Impostor Syndrome, or Third Eye, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11/20: Self Reflections. "Impostor Syndrome."

* * *

✦

* * *

So often, she met her own eyes in the mirror and wondered:

_Who are you?_

Not always.

Not while hugging Lyse up into a bear hold so tight that it lifted her small frame from the ground. Not in the kitchen with family Fortemps on cold, gray, sunlit mornings, sharing tea and unexpected family.

Not warm in a tent in the Mists at midnight, speaking softly with someone she'd never expected to love. Not keeping the True Brothers of the Faith at bay in the Vault, her heart throbbing with the urgency to protect the solemn, kindhearted paladin who’d helped restore her tenuous faith.

But, in the moments when nothing stirred; in the moments when the calm was enough to smother her, the stillness enough to drown her … In those moments, she felt like nothing.

Nothing more than another frozen, lonely heart.

Another splintered fragment of stardust.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Looking in the mirror, she could often see the sharp angles of her father.

His nose. His chin. His _eyes_.

So many pieces of her were, truly, pieces of him.

To think that she was made more of her father than of anything else … it was something that terrified her. Haunted her, even as it filled some hollow, aching void.

_Father._

She closed her eyes, smoothed a hand across the plane of her forehead.

Flush. Level. Nothing to hide.

How long had it been since she’d seen him? The man that cast aside everything he’d known and loved, just for her and her mother? The imperial who disavowed his castrum, rank, and very heritage to cling to the love he’d discovered?

If she kept her eyes shut tight, she could hear his words from over an epoch ago:

 _“I knew what treasures I’d found in Eorzea,”_ he’d said. _“And nothing in this world, not even my own blood, was going to keep me from them.”_

A shudder itched down her spine. Tears pricked against her eyelids.

“Forgive me,” she muttered. _Forgive me, for not believing._

_For not understanding._

The words that, rightfully, she should speak to his face.

_We are each of us as different as one day is from the next._

She swallowed a sob.

For, if the time should come, would she have her father’s strength? Could she, too, give up everything she’d ever known?

And darker, quieter, more somber still, she wondered: Could she _ever_ know a love so deep, so compelling, that she would strip herself of every shred of her identity just to chase it?

She opened her eyes to stare into her own, reflected in the mirror, dark shadows of her father’s.

As much as she still resented him for hiding the truth. As much as she hated him for giving her the blood, the  _Garlean_ blood, that pulsed through her veins. As much as she wished to deny it … her father was one of the most authentic people she’d ever known. And he deserved to hear it from her lips.

… I’ll tell him when I’m ready.

And she smiled against the echo of his voice in her mind.

_When I’m able to understand._

✦

* * *

 


	15. Her Umbral Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11/21/2017 — WoL feelings post-Antitower, pre-meeting with Aymeric.  
>  **Spoilers** : Takes place between Dragonsong War MSQ "The Word of the Mother" and "This War of Ours."

 

* * *

_Takes place shortly after the cutscenes following the Antitower, ending just before the cutscene of "This War of Ours.”_

* * *

✦

It was very cold that morning. The sun shed a thin, watery light over the snow-covered Coerthan Highlands as though it too wasn’t ready to rise, wasn’t ready to begin again.

Staring at the gates of Ishgard, she felt numb. Hollow.

A sleepless night of hard riding, her heart too dark, too broken, to channel to any aetheryte. She didn’t want to touch any fragment of the _Mother_.

Not now.

And so she rented mounts and rode, exchanging them at stables along the way, ignoring the stares of the stablehands, regarding her like she was a creature from another world. She knew her eyes were hard and cold as the ice of her heart; the angles of her face made sharp with bitterness. But she had no energy, no desire to soften the reality of her expression. And so she turned the full force of it on everyone she met that night, beyond the capacity to care about impressions.

 _Let them see the truth of their Warrior of **Light**_.

The words were like poison in her mind, and she closed her eyes against them.

 _Hydaelyn_. A name she’d once imagined with reverence, with gratitude.

But that had been _before._ Before all of this senseless loss, for the sake of balance—for the sake of something _greater._ For the sake of sundered realities, of Light and Dark, of Man and Ascian, of Made and Unmade—

_For those we have lost._

_For those we can yet save._

The soft, kind features of Minfilia’s lovely face flashed behind her eyelids and she gasped a painful sob of breath. There was suddenly the memory of so many warm embraces, so many solemn talks, so many honest laughs and smiles—

And then came Estinien, with the next throb of her heart. Manipulated by his own ambitions, consumed with bottomless agony, possessed by Nidhogg himself—

Her face twisted and she took a shuddering step forward in the snow, as though that could stop the surging flood of memories. But—

_"Oh, do not look at me so…  
_

She stumbled, her knees buckling beneath her—

_… A smile … better suits … a hero.”_

And she sank down into the cold, prickling snowdrift, and wept.

She wept for Haurchefant, for the way she never remotely deserved his sacrifice. For Estinien, for utterly failing to salve his wounds. For Minfilia, for abandoning her outright to her fate.

She wept for Ysayle. For Shiva and Hraesvelgr. For Ratatoskr and Tiamat, for the whole First Brood. She even wept for Nidhogg.

For a long, breathless moment, she wept into the snow. Sobbed until she couldn’t tell if the cold she felt was from the unrelenting winter around her, or from the ice within her heart.

Because the truth was colder still.

_I’ve failed them all._

* * *

✦

* * *

 

When she stepped into the foyer of the Congregation of our Knights Most Heavenly, she was soaked through. The knight attending noticed immediately, his eyes widening through the window of his helmet.

He gasped audibly and rushed to her side, escorting her to one of several fires in the room. “My lady, please, warm yourself immediately!”

Too miserable to resist, and too exhausted to summon the assistance of her own astral aspect, she bent to the necessity and followed his lead. “Thank you, Ser,” she muttered.

At the melancholy of her tone, the concern in his eyes deepened, and he glanced up at a peer across the room. “Ser Babineaux, please find something warm for Lady Floravale to drink.”

She wanted to refuse, to tell him there was no need. She felt her muscles itching to dismiss him. But she couldn’t.

Instead, she sank against the hard wooden frame of the chair he dragged over, and accepted the tea and heavy blanket that were brought to her.

Silently, she warmed by the fire, slowly assembling a mask of indifference.

She was here per Alphinaud to consult with the Lord Commander, and it wouldn’t do to show her pain.

Not to Ser Aymeric.

Not just yet.

✦

* * *

 


	16. Mists of Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written on 12/2/2017. I thought I posted this over a year ago, but I did not. Also, time truly flies.  
> Luckily this is a chronological continuation of the previous chapter.

* * *

  _Continues chronologically from the previous chapter, after the cutscene of "This War of Ours."_

* * *

 ✦

With a hollow, iron sound, the door swung shut behind the Warrior of Light, and the Lord Commander sank back down into his seat. 

He was deeply self-conscious, aware of the way his brow tensed; the way his gaze lingered on the path she’d taken across the room. He conjured the phantom of her in his mind’s eye, wishing she still stood before him.

He’d been clouded by the shock of joy at seeing her again ... overwhelmed, impassioned by the vigor and conviction of his words. He hadn’t given himself leave to truly _look_ at her, to consider the dark circles beneath her eyes; to examine the way her slow, deliberate gait bespoke a lassitude he could scarcely imagine.

He’d noticed, but he hadn’t _paid attention._

Too focused he’d been on his own desires — especially the tentative, if enthusiastic intent to request again her private company. And at his offer, he certainly had not missed the dark shadow that crossed her expression. Doubt began to whirl in his mind, but her nod, her smallish smile, had served to assuage his fears.

He pressed back the hair from his forehead, made a low sound in his throat.

What a fool he’d been.

Resting one elbow upon the parchment spread across his desk, he held searching blue eyes on the door. He stroked thumb and forefinger along his bottom lip, his brow knitting under the weight of his thoughts.

_What must she have seen since last we met?_

His heart wrung with bitter apprehension and its calm, steady, heretofore solemn beat fluttered with the urge to follow her from the room, to chase her down; to beg her to put words to that which he’d seen, and _not_ seen.

He closed his eyes.

Allowing himself to worry over her well-being was not a luxury he could presently afford.

But he stole a moment in the quiet candlelight to do so nonetheless.

 

* * *

 ✦

* * *

 

Gasping against the cold, she stumbled through the streets of Ishgard, focused solely on the sight of the House Fortemps.

 Of _home._

Her whole body ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to that which yet lingered in her heart.

She felt Edmont’s eyes on her as she limped through the door, followed by a swirling flurry of snow.  When she met his tense expression, he tilted his chin in the direction of her chambers.

“Rest, my dear,” he murmured. “I beg of you.”

As she held his gaze, suddenly so warm, so _paternal_ , her heart twisted in another way entirely. His midnight blue eyes reminded her of another, much paler pair.

_Father._

Moving quickly down the hall, she tamped back the feeling, far down into the familiar frozen corner of her heart. _Not now._ Not when every nerve was on fire. Not when the ache in her soul was enough to swallow her whole.

 _I need time_. For all of this.

Her room was blessedly warm, a young fire crackling in the hearth. No doubt word of her early arrival at the Congregation spread quickly to the Pillars, giving Edmont time to anticipate her return.

Bless the Count.

Bless him and this House.

Her throat closed up and she staggered to the foot of her bed, slowly sinking against the comforter.

With trembling hands, she unlaced dripping boots, pulled them from her swollen feet. She peeled off cold, wet socks; rolled down the thick stockings that were only dry now at the top of her thighs. Her teeth chattered as she shed her cloak and fleece and the long, heavy robes beneath.

Slowly, she removed each layer of clothing, until she sat, shivering, in her smallclothes.

And then, solemn as the dead, she pulled back the heavy blankets of her bed, and slipped beneath them.

_Rest._

So she closed her eyes against the swirling tempest in her heart.

 

* * *

 ✦

* * *

 

She dreamt of ice, of gnashing teeth, of cold, sharp hands raking her body.

A growling voice called to her from a great distance and she struggled to find it, squinting through the smothering darkness, her head too heavy, too heavy to turn.

 _Samantha_ , he moaned. She pushed helplessly forward, her feet dragging like they were melting into the earth. _Please_ , he was saying. _Help me._

She opened her lips to speak but her throat was dry. Hot. The words turned to smoke in her mouth, and she had to swallow them back, trying not to choke on the ashes.

_Why have you forgotten?_

✦

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an idea for some offshoot and alternative "scenes" that aren't necessarily "canon," but have been nagging in the back of my mind nonetheless. I may post them here, or create a new work specifically designed for "offshoots."


	17. Rime Wreath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written between 12/28 and 12/29/2018. Implied smut warning.  
> I don't think this counts as explicit? But please correct me if I'm wrong.

* * *

_A memory of Estinien, brought on by the ending of last chapter._

* * *

 ✦

* * *

 

Outside, the midnight wind churned. Flurries of snow swept high along the walls of the House Fortemps, piling between vaulted stone walkways and jagged rooftops. One of the balconies held a row of young potted roses. Blood red and dusky pink, they curled beneath a glittering rime. Behind them, beside the doors to the bedroom, stood the body of an ornate lance. Though it lay concealed in the shadows, the instrument was famous, like the title of its owner. Bold of him to leave it where others might see. Blatant and shameless, like the man himself.

Beyond the doors, past the curtains of the windows and the smears of snow he’d tracked well inside, two people lay tangled in the bedclothes—arms and legs and sweat and skin. The Warrior of Light crushed her lips to Estinien’s neck, an effort to stem the cry in her throat. He buried his teeth in the flesh of her shoulder to stifle his own.

There would be a mark there. They both bore signs of these fierce, furtive meetings—hidden aches and bruises in various states of healing, which frankly blended in with the scars from everything else. This agony was sweet in comparison.

Like baring a wound to clean it, the pain they shared was sharp and healing—a release well spent.

Their racing hearts slowed. Estinien made a sound low in his throat and slumped over her, giving the spot he’d bitten a tender, open-mouthed kiss. “I have marred your skin too many times,” he muttered gruffly, unraveling himself from her limbs.

She gave a breathless laugh and sought his lips. He accepted her slow and savoring kiss, rolling to his side to enjoy it. She followed, and he draped one long, muscled arm around her—a practiced motion. His calloused fingertips ran along the curve of her side, nesting neatly in the valley of her waist.

“I believe I’ll survive,” she said, tilting her face to meet the dark blue of his eyes.

Wreathed in dim moonlight, he was watching her, sharp and focused. Nothing could make him lose his edge—not even the fog of succor that still warmed his blood. He took a breath. “No more,” he said darkly, his eyes flashing. “No more of this.”

She held his solemn stare, quirking one dark, arched brow. A silent question.

The hand in the crook of her waist twitched. He hesitated much too long, sapping the words that followed of credence. “I mean it,” he grunted, gruff and unconvincing. He propped himself up with an arm, withdrawing the one that touched her. His gaze was unblinking. “We have allowed this dalliance to drag on long enough.”

Keeping her eyes locked on his, she lifted from the mattress and shivered. The fire was out. The heat of their joining was fading. The air felt icy cool against the sweat that lingered on her skin. She gathered her long dark hair behind her neck and sighed. “You know I don’t believe you, Estinien.”

When she shivered again, his eyes flicked to the smoldering embers in the fireplace, then down to the bare plane of her chest. He reached his free arm past her for the bedspread crumpled there, and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. He let his palm linger against her, smoothing it slowly down her arm. “Whether or not you believe me,” he began, staring deep into her eyes. “This thing between us feels dangerous.”

Samantha took a breath.

“Yes,” she conceded, just as he knew she would. She pressed her lips together to consider  _why_. “Perhaps because we’ve returned to Ishgard, and find ourselves bound by duty and obligation. That, and it’s been a long while since I’ve—” She looked away. A hot blush stole to her cheeks.

Estinien watched her, stone-faced. “Since?”

Her eyes froze on the darkened fireplace while she nursed her humiliation.

_Since I’ve **wanted** like this._

Try as she might, she desired no one else. Only Estinien—who had a bitter wreath of rime around his heart, at least twice as thick as hers. Cold and fierce she needed, and cold and fierce she found.

Her voice, however, was weak and quiet. “It’s been a long while since I’ve craved a man like this,” she admitted.

She could almost feel the burn of Estinien’s eyes bearing down on her. “Stop trying to distract me,” he grumbled.

“I’m not,” she snapped. Shame, as hot as the blush before, crept down her neck. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to resist? Tried to slake this _urge_ I feel to keep _dragging you into bed?_ ” She sighed. “I don’t have the time or energy for this.”

He shuddered and closed his eyes. He needed no bedclothes around his shoulders. This shiver was something different altogether. “Fury save me,” he muttered.

Samantha took a shallow breath. She dared to ask it.

“Am I alone in these feelings?”

“Of course not,” he said, too gruff, too quickly, his voice too harsh. He lowered his eyes. “But ties themselves are dangerous,” he muttered. “As you and I are well aware.”

It was true. She steeled herself, nonetheless. “I won’t let go of this,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. Her voice was thick with fervor. “I won’t let go of _you._ ”

Estinien faltered. The heat of her words made him hesitate.

He wet his lips. “E-even if _this_ —” he swept one arm between them for effect “—must end—even if we never spend another night together—” He paused. “You must know I stand by you.” He leaned close to her again, lifting a hand to grip her arm tight. His thumb smoothed against the edge of her blanket. “You won my allegiance long ago.”

Samantha shook her head, blinking fast against the mist that sprang to her eyes. _Seven hells._

“You fool,” she hissed, breathing hard. “I know that.”

She twisted free from his touch, only to move closer. Her arms slipped tight around the warm, bare skin of his waist. He folded her close against him in an instant.

Both were silent. The room filled with the sound of the wind, howling outside.

“I—” She faltered. She pressed her cheek against the sinew of his shoulder. “You don’t understand.”

He rested his lips against the crown of her head. “Then help me to learn,” he murmured.

She took a ragged breath, loud in the silence. Her voice cracked. “I— _need_ you,” she finally confessed, brushing her lips against the warm plane of his chest.

His voice caught in the back of this throat. “Why,” he croaked.

She tasted the salt of his skin, kissed the base of his throat. “To feel.” She moved her mouth along the column of his neck—smoothed back the long, silvery hair that clung there. “You—and I—” She closed her eyes. “Feeling you like this … is the only way anything seems _real_.”

He was trembling, holding her tight.

“I can hold no such power,” he whispered. “Not I alone.”

She lifted her face to meet hooded blue eyes. His gaze was dark and vast as midnight. “You hold power over _me,_ Estinien,” she said, lost in his eyes. “You, and you alone.”

Black fire flashed through his stare. “Stop.” He ground out the word. Then he took her face in both hands and covered her mouth with his.

She could taste the words unspoken—the words he tried to deliver through lips and teeth and tongue. She yielded to the pressure of his touch and found herself buried beneath him again. The bedspread crumpled behind her back. He left a trail of burning kisses down her neck, down between her breasts, returning to meet her eyes.

They were pressed flush together, skin on skin. She could feel the tempo of his heartbeat, pulsing fast and hard—the gentle, urgent touch of rough, calloused fingers.

His voice was clipped and dark. “This is the last time,” he muttered, arcing above her. “I swear it.”

She knew it was a lie but nodded all the same. “Then make it count.” She hooked her legs tight around his narrow hips. Every muscle in his body tensed and he took one sharp breath.

* * *

Outside, the wind churned.

Outside, a rime of frost covered the roses, cold and glittering.

 

* * *

✦

* * *

 


	18. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12/30/2018 — As dawn breaks, our Warrior of Light thinks back on a memory of Haurchefant, and a memory shortly after his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the Pillars themes on repeat while writing most of this.
> 
> Just to clarify, I imagine that while they cared for one another and shared a very deep bond, her relationship with Haurchefant was platonic. His warmth, along with the warmth of everyone in Manor Fortemps (and Alphinaud and Tataru, of course) kept her from losing all hope in Ishgard. Still, she feared to expose any of them to the true depths of her pain. Estinien is the only person she feels, for whatever reason, can "handle" it. 
> 
> A theme with my Warrior of Light is that as she loses more and more people, she gets colder and colder, avoiding close relationships — but they keep happening regardless, perpetuating the cycle.

* * *

_Continues in sequence from the previous chapters, in the time span after the events of the Antitower._

* * *

 

Cold light streamed in through a gap in her curtains.

Samantha opened tired eyes against the pale dawn, staring blankly at the doors to her balcony.

 

* * *

 ✦

“Amazing.” Haurchefant bent down to touch a frost gilded blossom. Messy, slate grey hair fell in a jagged fringe around his blue eyes. “Such elegant creatures,” he marveled, studying the colors of the petals beneath the ice.

It was just past sunrise. The rest of the House Fortemps was still asleep—Tataru and Alphinaud included. From the first moments of her time in Ishgard, Samantha had settled into the habit of starting her days with Haurchefant—the only one of them who rose as early as she.

“I must remember to take them inside tonight,” she said, leaning half outside the doorframe. She nudged the small snowdrift by the door with the bare toes that peeked beyond the hem of her nightgown. “Luckily roses don’t mind a good bit of snow.”

Haurchefant chuckled. “A beautiful thing that tolerates the cold,” he mused, meeting her gaze with a sly, bright smile. “That reminds me rather strongly of _someone I know.”_

She barked an ugly laugh—the one that fell somewhere between the crowing birdcall of her mother, and the bellowing guffaw of her father. “Stop trying to flatter me, Greystone,” she scolded, reaching out an arm to smack him. He dodged smoothly. “And come back inside. Our tea’s getting cold.”

They approached the sitting alcove by the fire. The low table there was spread with a pot and cups and saucers, along with sugar and Gridanian honey—courtesy of her own small collection. Haurchefant began to serve, but Samantha swatted him out of the way. He only wrestled her back to the couch, using one arm to restrain her.

“ _Let me do it_ ,” she gasped, cackling.

He body checked her down to the cushion, managing to delicately balance the teapot all the same. “You are a guest in my father’s house,” he began, his voice taking on a pointedly pompous note. “It is my duty as your host—”

“Oh, _don’t you dare_ start with that again,” she groaned, ducking around his arm and heaping maple sugar into the cup he’d already poured—exactly the copious amount he preferred.

He glared at her brightly from the corner of his eye. “That one was meant to be yours.”

“It’s yours now,” she said, very smug, pushing it toward him. Then she held out her hand to receive the teapot.

Haurchefant sighed, giving in. “You win this round, Lady Floravale,” he muttered, passing it to her. “Though I daresay you take your tea nearly as sweet as I.”

She chuckled, pouring a cup and spooning in several dollops of honey. “Our teeth are going to rot out of _both_ of our mouths one day,” she agreed, stirring.

“Then we should make sure to smile while we still can,” quipped Haurchefant, picking up his cup and saucer. Samantha took hers in both hands and sank back onto the couch, with him alongside her. They each took a sip and closed their eyes.

“Ah,” sighed Haurchefant, his lips quirked in a small grin. “Like drinking syrup.”

“Dangerously sweet—just the way you like it.” She took another sip, then folded her legs up on the cushion and wedged her bare feet against the warmth of his thighs.

Haurchefant was wearing nothing but a loose nightshirt and trousers—his bedclothes—and hissed at the contact. “By _Halone_ your feet are cold!” She cackled again as he shoved her legs away from him. “Keep those icy abominations to yourself—or at _least_ use some of that fire aspected aether of yours to warm them.”

She crossed her legs beneath her. “Why would I do _that_ when I can use them to annoy you?”

“As skilled as you are when it comes to my torture,” he teased, tilting his head to look at her through dark grey lashes, “I would _greatly prefer it_ if you would refrain. I am still half asleep.”

She quirked a brow at him and took another long sip of tea. He did the same before resting his cup and saucer on the table before them. Then he sighed and slouched back against the cushion.

Haurchefant stared up at the ceiling and took a breath. “I am glad you are here, Samantha,” he confessed. “You bring so much life to this house.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t tease me,” she warned. “You know as well as I do how much I keep to myself. If it wasn’t for you and Alphinaud, I’d almost be a shadow.”

He chuckled. “I wonder at the way you perceive yourself,” he said, turning his face to look at her, smiling faintly. “Because the woman I know fills this house with warmth and laughter, especially at mealtimes. And teatimes, for that matter,” he said, counting on his fingers. “And how often have I found you chatting with father or Artoirel in the library? Fury knows the favors you’ve paid all of us besides.” He turned his eyes to the fire. “We cannot help but bask in the light of your presence.”

A hot flush swelled in her cheeks. “I don’t deserve such praise and hospitality.”

“Nonsense,” tutted Haurchefant. “I know I speak for the whole of my family when I say it has been our pleasure.” He turned his eyes to her again. “Perhaps _you_ are the rose _we_ have taken in from the cold.”

Samantha snorted against her embarrassment and shoved her feet into the crook of his knee. He laughed loudly, pushing her legs away.

She folded her legs back beneath her and smiled to herself, almost privately. “I can’t decide if you’re trying to flatter me again,” she muttered, taking another long sip of tea.

“You _are_ very charming when flustered,” he admitted. “Besides, I must find some way to pay back your torment.”

Embarrassment flushed her skin again and she gave a breathless chuckle. “Abominable.”

“They do say all is fair in love and war,” he noted, letting his eyes linger upon her before turning them to the fire. “I am sorely afraid it falls on you to become the front line of Ishgard.” He was quiet for a moment. “Let me do my part to keep you lighthearted, laughing and smiling to spite them all.”

The weight of his words, ripe with dimension, fell like stones in her stomach. She swallowed hard, reaching for her tea to drown the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Haurchefant,” she murmured, her voice very quiet. “I don’t know how I earned such a devoted, steadfast friend.”

He turned warm eyes to face her. “You deserve _so_ much more.”

She held his gaze for a moment. Each of them studied the other, the angles of their faces glowing warm in the firelight.

He smiled. “I am glad you are here, Samantha.”

The ghost of a smile lifted her lips. “I am, too.”

 ✦

* * *

 

The mist of the memory lifted from her mind.

The shafts of cold sunlight outside dimmed, covered by clouds.

 

* * *

 ✦ 

Her same Fortemps quarters, some time later. It was well past midnight. There was a quiet creak of the door. Then, a rush of cold air as someone stepped inside, bringing with them a flurry of ice.

Though she kept her back turned to the balcony, she knew who it was. A stray snowflake tickled her cheek, and she curled in on herself beneath the bedclothes, remaining silent.

The room filled with the soft sounds of him unbuckling his boots, unfastening his cloak, shedding the outer layers he’d worn against the cold. Behind her, the mattress sank. Then the bedclothes shifted as he slipped beneath them. She felt cold arms in rough-woven sleeves slide to wrap around her.

Samantha flinched away from his touch, but he pressed himself tighter.

“You’re freezing,” she croaked, shivering against the cage of his arms. Hot tears leapt to her eyes immediately and she blinked them away.

He hugged her close against him. She gasped at the familiar pressure of his long body behind her, all hard muscle and sinew. “You feel feverish,” he muttered. His lips moved near her temple, followed by the feather soft touch of his breath.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and the edges of her vision blurred.

One, two warm trails, tickled down her cheeks.

“Why have you come,” she asked, choking on the words. “Why are you here?”

Estinien’s arms were a gentle vise around her. “Because this world is cruel,” he said, his voice a dark murmur. “And I did not wish for you to think yourself alone.”

They lay there together in silence. She shuddered against her ragged heartbeat, against the flood of tears that wouldn’t cease. And he held her, still and solemn.

Time ceased to matter. For all she knew, it ceased to exist. There was nothing beyond the cage of his arms, nothing beyond the wet salt on her lips. Nothing beyond the cold, dark crevasse of her heart.

 ✦

* * *

 


	19. Divine Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha tries to get a grip on herself.  
> Luckily, Aymeric is standing by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is in almost a third-person Aymeric voice, which was very challenging and fun to write.  
> I sincerely hope I've managed to capture him, at least a little—and convey some of the hidden world I imagine he possesses.

* * *

✦

She dragged the roses in from the balcony, one by one. It was snowing hard—a violent storm in the making. They wouldn’t be missing any sunlight this day, whether she tucked them inside or not.

The icy stone beneath her bare feet was so cold it burned, but she relished the discomfort. It was almost invigorating. The umbral aspect within her reached out, stretched down the veins of both legs to meet it.

Once she’d rescued every flower, she prowled on numb and tingling toes to the washroom.

How long had it been since she bathed? The plumbing creaked as she turned the knob. The sound of coursing water filled the bathroom, and she yanked off her nightgown and stepped out of her smallclothes.

She turned to face herself in the mirror.

Absolutely, unequivocally filthy. Her long dark hair was matted and dull, laying in clumps around her shoulders. Her limbs were smeared with confusing amounts of dirt, and her skin was course from sweat and travel. Not to mention the _smell_. Had she reeked like this the day before? Had she been so repulsive in counsel with Aymeric? A flush of shame began to rise to her cheeks, but she scoffed against it, giving her reflection a look of pure reproach.

_Trivialities, Samantha._

Ones for which you can spare neither the time nor the energy—remember?

She grimaced. Had she ever once concerned herself with _Estinien’s_ opinion?

Her heart flinched.

_No._

_Think of him._

_Confront the full truth of this._

“He is gone.”

Out loud, her voice was hollow. Empty. Drowned out and smothered by the rushing of the water. The view of her reflection in the mirror blurred, and she felt hot tears streak down her face.

Estinien was gone. Good as dead.

Her breath hitched.

Barring some miracle—some method to wrest Nidhogg from his body—

_No._

She slowed the whirling cogs of her mind. It was wrong to risk that line of thinking. Even if hope was meant to be a balm, these days, it failed her. There had been too much loss for her to trust it. Beyond that, it was a waste to wrestle with memories.

_Thinking back on the past changes nothing. I must look forward._

But what lay ahead?

She swallowed hard, tasting iron and salt, and stepped into the bathtub.

* * *

✦

* * *

Aymeric de Borel was no stranger to fancy or fixation—nor immune to them besides.

In two and thirty years, he had encountered his share of fascinations. To own it, he held guard against them.

It had long been his wish to transcend worldly desires. Even knowing now what he did about the primals, he still strove to forge his will and virtue into something beyond reproach. He tempered his zeal, of course, to circumvent fanaticism—but, in some dark recess of his heart, he almost _understood_ how some could cross that line. An ideal vision of himself stood enshrined in his mind's eye. Would he stop at nothing to become him?

How often had he dreamt of being the divine veil of Ishgard? In the deepest core of his being, he craved to protect her—to shepherd her people to a warmer, brighter horizon. But these ambitions cast his plentiful shortcomings in high relief.

Try as he might to embody something beyond, he was a mortal man, plagued by mortal concerns—alluring people among them. A handful had more that captivated his attention. Some he even pursued. But Aymeric was not the type of man to neglect his duty, real or imagined. Against the weight of his primary obligation to Ishgard, many would-be liaisons crumpled.

To him, it was perplexing. Wherefore should he set aside all he held sacred—especially in some pursuit, or rather _proof_ of his affections?

Over the years, too, he received abundant praise for his beauty—of all things—some if it nearly _lascivious._  He found these admirations misguided at best. Those who swooned for his outward charms often met his habits and conduct—his inward self—with mystifying distaste. Romance, therefore, was a truly bewildering realm, filled with rules and cyphers that, for all his political preparation, were almost impossible to navigate.

Even should he unearth some path through the labyrinth—even when he stayed the charted course, to arrive on the cusp of some coveted connection—the nature of his role and position as Lord Commander inspired an air of decorum, of stifling _propriety_ that prevented it. Laymen and courtiers alike approached him only on their best days, in their best dress, on their very best behavior. Rarely did he feel he received the full picture. Rarely did he feel he received the truth of them. Aymeric was forced to conclude that, even under the best of circumstances, genuine depth with others in his life was nigh impossible.

And then he met the Warrior of Light.

She was—strange.

Decorum, but incomplete. Attentive, but often distracted. Possessed of dignity and passion, outwardly earnest, with distinct devotion to both her companions and her cause. But behind her eyes—he could see it, he was no stranger to it—there lingered ice.

Fascinating, to say the least.

A breadth of events had passed since their first meeting. Over that time, they shared no shortage of sessions and consultations—summits, talks, drily diplomatic transactions. Discussions and assemblies filled with everything from supplication, caution, and rebuke, to celebration and tragedy.

Now she was in Ishgard, serving as his aide—or perhaps the other way around. In either case, he was afforded ample opportunity to seek her audience. At first, they treated solely as diplomats—for his people, for hers—for the promise of tentative alliance.

He came to glean small measures of the burdens she shouldered. And all too soon, he was wondering after the woman herself—her safety and health—her universal well-being.

He wanted to be the veil of Ishgard—but perhaps protect the _Warrior_ , as well.

The peril she faced was great— _unimaginable_ —and she came with no shortage of steadfast allies. But she bore so much of her charge _alone_. How? _Why?_   Was her sense of obligation as his, as deep and thoroughly abiding? Did she bear along with her any regrets?

When she came to him with her private confession, the revelation of reciprocal enthrallment, something unfamiliar surged open inside him. Suddenly nothing was enough. Though they met and spoke exactly as before, his peace of mind was lost.

Flames within were growing—and he allowed it. He fanned them, perhaps despite himself—perhaps against his very will.

And now, he held a cherished memory. Like forbidden treasure, he kept it concealed, buried jealously inside a corner of his heart.

After all, the warm, glittering glimpse was his to keep—the legacy of one quiet evening, just before a storm, when he stole a firelit kiss.

✦

* * *

 


	20. Aetherpact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Warrior of Light enlists Alphinaud's assistance in restoring her peace of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply believe that Alphinaud has a crush on literally everyone. It might be my favorite headcanon. That being said, in my mind's eye time-frame of the game, he's definitely not been sixteen this entire time. I really and truly feel that he's At Least Eighteen by this point—I mean, come on. How can all of this be taking place in a single year? THAT being said, as fun as it is to write about him having a crush on her, it makes me uncomfortable to fully ship them together without aging him even further. So. Enjoy another hint of gentle and thoroughly unrequited Alphinaud-crushing-on-the-Warrior-of-Light.
> 
> The POV here alternates, but only once, about halfway through. I placed a break where this occurs. I hope it's not too confusing.

* * *

✦

* * *

 

Samantha balanced the empty glass of whisky on the table and sighed. She slouched far back in her chair, her bleary gaze drifting to settle on the familiar face across the table.

Alphinaud was still nose-deep in his book—a tome he’d unearthed from the Fortemps library.

Plenty of time had passed since dinner—the meal itself a diplomatic affair. She, Alphinaud, and Tataru were obliged to flit between a scattering of stuffy Ishgardian dignitaries, carefully describing their activities in Coerthas.

Unlike Alphinaud, she wasn’t much for formal affairs—beside the excuse to dress in fine clothes. Even now she wore her evening gown, reluctant to take it off. Pitch black and glittering, it very nearly met with Ishgardian standards of modesty. The neckline dipped to reveal nothing far below the delicate ledge of her collarbones. And while the closure in the back _was_ deep and sweeping, she sensibly hid it beneath the folds of a heavy stole.

Now, she slipped the wide stretch of fabric from her shoulders, piling it gracelessly onto the table.

Alphinaud didn’t budge, and she grinned at his unwavering attention. Enthusiasm for literature, obscure or otherwise, was a pastime the two of them shared.

Petty conflicts aside, there had always been ease between them—many cornerstones of their friendship—evidenced, no less, by the peaceful way they currently coexisted. These days, however, she’d been more than aloof.

Samantha wondered if Alphinaud noticed—if he felt some rift, or unusual absence. If he did, he hardly let on. His posture was comfortable, his wide blue eyes rapt with interest, fixed intently on the text he deciphered. He hardly seemed aware of her presence at all.

The train of her gown rustled on the floor as she crossed her legs beneath the table. Her mind was warm, addled with liquor. She had to concentrate to reach up and unpin her hair, plucking the deep crimson blossom from its place as an ornament.

Her head spun ever so slightly as she traced a forefinger along the soft, velvet petals.

_Rose red._

Red, Estinien’s accursed, tainted armor. Red, the stain on Haurchefant’s lips.

Red, the smoldering rage that yet lingered, searing deep beneath her ribs.

Dark thoughts. Common thoughts, these days.

“Tell me, Alphinaud,” she muttered. “And please, be honest.” She glanced from the petals to the lamp that sat between them. The flame there flickered and danced, pulling her forward.

She took a heavy breath.

“Do you still look up to me?” She lifted her eyes to study him intently. “After everything that’s happened—” _After this darkness that creeps to fill my heart …_ “—Is there aught about me fit to admire?”

* * *

Alphinaud lifted his eyes slowly from his reading. He stared at her for a moment, a faint blush creeping to his cheeks. He surveyed the table between them—the empty glass in front of her—the elaborate decanter of liquor nearby. Watching her like she might startle, he got to his feet and inched toward her. Once he was close enough, he snatched the decanter from the table.

“I believe you have had enough of _this_ for one night,” he muttered, taking it away.

A laugh bubbled to her lips, followed quickly by offense. “Don’t patronize me,” she grumbled. Then, under her breath. “It was only a glass and a half.”

Alphinaud ignored her and busied himself putting the liquor back in its cabinet. It truly was late. Edmont had taken to his study. Tataru was off gods knew where, and Artoirel and Emmanellain were their own beasts, with their own habits entirely.

Alphinaud didn’t care to know _why_ they were alone—it was something he frankly enjoyed, under most normal circumstances. But Samantha rarely plied herself with spirits, and when she did, her mind tended to fly to strange places.

Granted, diplomatic sorties were not her forte. Perhaps she drank to ease some lingering distress. Still …

“It was three,” he quietly amended, crouched down low to replace the bottle. “And you know very well that I am not _patronizing_ you.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder.

“You most certainly are,” she countered, giving him a hard stare. “You know how condescending you can be.”

Affront flared up in his chest. “I am _not_ _being condescending_.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “I have your best interest at heart, Samantha, and—frankly, I believe I know when you are _pushing your limits_.”

She snorted and scoffed. “I believe _you_ are dodging my _question_ , Leveilleur,” she muttered, using the rose blossom in her hand to point at him. “Which, by the way, is very out of character.” She turned her eyes back to the flame of the lamp and stared at it dully.

Alphinaud stood up from the floor. Thoroughly provoked, he strode back to the table, his face a mask of pure indignation. “I am _not_ dodging the question,” he protested, brushing back a stray wisp of snow-white hair. “I merely thought—” He cleared his throat. “The hour is late. Perhaps this conversation would best be held another time.”

Samantha turned to face him, fixing him with a demanding glower. The candlelight reflected in her fierce brown eyes as she studied him. “I want you to talk to me _now_.”

He faltered and froze like a fawn. “I-I am unsure what to say,” he admitted, shocked to truth. “I am unsure what it is you _want_ me to say.” She was a lioness before him, strong and severe.

She barked a laugh, shattering the illusion. “What I _want_ you to say?” She chuckled to herself. “The Alphinaud I know hardly cares about that. And besides, how could you pass up such an open invitation to indulge in _unchecked verbiage?_ ”

She pushed aside her stole and leaned over the table toward him. “Tell me,” she began again. “Do you still look up to me?”

Every muscle in his body was tense. “How can I _not?_ ” He sank down to his chair in defeat, swallowing to quench the dryness in his throat. “Does not all of Eorzea?”

“I am not asking the opinion of Eorzea,” she qualified, lacing her fingers together.

In the dim lamplight, even as she pressed him, her hard edge was so much softened. She suddenly seemed less fierce and more beguiling. For a moment he was transfixed—cast back to earlier memories of the evening, when he glimpsed her laughing and smiling, stunningly elegant and refined. How deeply he enjoyed witnessing that side of her—the girl, the _woman_ beneath the mantle.

He let his eyes drift to trace the glittering fringe of her neckline, her collarbones, the waves of dark hair that framed them.

He swallowed hard, staring down at the hands folded tight in his lap.

Should he reveal his frankest opinion? To him, she was more than mere ally or mentor. More, even, than the closest of friends. But those were intensely private, preposterous feelings. Feelings he was extremely careful to keep to himself.

He might be an adult in Sharlayan terms, but to her—nearly an _epoch_ his senior—surely nothing far past a child. And understandably so. She towered over him in every way he could imagine—except, perhaps, political relations.

“You know very well how deeply I regard you,” he muttered instead, keeping his eyes uncharacteristically lowered. “For your strength, and vigilance—” _And beauty, and passion._ “But beyond that, your devotion—to all who need you.” He took a breath, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “You are our Warrior. You bear it well. From where I stand, there is nothing lacking.”

She held his gaze for a very long moment. Again, his attention drifted—from the black arch of her brows, down the strong line of her nose, to the stern set of her lips.

“What if I wasn’t the Warrior of Light?” she asked, very quietly. “What would you think of me then?”

He looked back into her eyes.

That, he could begin to answer.

“We are what we are,” he said gently. “A sum of our experience, of the events of our lives. You inhabit your role, as I inhabit mine.” He paused. Turn and turnabout was fair play, after all. “What would you think of _me_ , had I not been the grandson of Louisoix?”

That earned him a tender smile. He savored it, the way it revealed her solemn beauty.

“If you were not you,” she said, “—and I was not I … I suppose our paths may not have crossed.” She lowered her gaze back down to the dim flame of the lamp. “I am glad they did. I am glad I know you, Alphinaud.” She looked back up at him with mischief in her eyes. “ _Leveilleur_ or not.”

He felt his own lips curve into a smile—another blush begin heating his cheeks. “I am glad to hear it,” he muttered. “And I hope my words will be of some use to you.”

She laughed. “They always are, my friend. Abundant though they may be."

 _A fine consolation._ He fought the urge to look away.

“I—have noticed that you seem lost of late,” he admitted, buckling under the sudden weight of her stare. He steeled himself to continue. “Not in act or deed, but—” How honest could he be? How much could he reveal of his observations? “—you are not entirely yourself,” he finished lamely.

“No,” she agreed. “I am not.” Her eyes went back to the lamp. “But I am working to return to some semblance of how I once was.”

He took a breath. “We are all ever changing,” he said, the words coming faster than intended. “You do not need to feel shame or consternation for the way that you must evolve to cope with—the unfolding of events.”

She looked down at her own hands, laced together on the table. “Perhaps not. But I feel it all the same.”

For the briefest flicker of a moment, everything fell away. In front of him was neither the Warrior of Light, nor the oft intimidating sorceress he admired—but merely a vulnerable woman, lost inside herself.

Who would _she_ be to him? How would he treat _her?_

He lifted his right hand on impulse, intending to reach for hers. Instead, he let it rest limply in front of him. “I—am always here,” he said. “That will never change.”

She unfolded her hands. Brushed aside the rose blossom. And then she reached across the table to cover his hand herself.

“Thank you, Alphinaud,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers.

 

* * *

✦

* * *

 


	21. Unceremonious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric gets to see her again.
> 
> Hot fluff, short and sweet. Aymeric POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy I made myself embarrassed writing this.  
> Did I mention I used to despise Aymeric? Anyway ...

* * *

✦

* * *

 

Aymeric stood in the foyer of the Borel Manor, stiff with anticipation. Though his expression was stoic as ever, his eyes lingered on the door, tense and expectant.

“What is the hour?” he called, the soft, solemn tones of his voice carrying through the chambers.

The steward called back. “Nearly midday, my lord.” A pause. “Do you believe your visitor will be late?”

Aymeric’s cool blue eyes flashed, a hint of amusement coloring his features. “Not in the slightest,” he said, self-assured. _She will come._

At that very instant, the chimes of his doorbell rang, echoing the chiming of the clock in the hall. As his steward rushed to greet the visitor, Aymeric grinned openly and chuckled.

_Punctual._

While he kept his eyes fixed on the entryway, a swell of excitement fluttered low in his belly. He steadied himself—pressed the heels of his boots against the floor—swallowed down the heart that suddenly rose into his throat.

How long had it been since he’d felt this way—eager and aflutter? It was a child’s feeling—young and innocent—a sensation he’d heretofore thought forever lost.

The steward opened the door. Sunlight and snow flurries streamed into the foyer. And there, standing in the sunstream, was the Warrior of Light.

His attention narrowed to the sight of her face—stern, sun-bronzed, flushed from the cold—long black lashes framing her sharp brown eyes. “I do hope you can forgive me,” she was saying, flashing him an apologetic glance and struggling one arm out from under her cloak. “I know my response came with little notice.”

He was rushing to her side—lending a hand with her fleeces—barely comprehending. “I am always happy to receive you,” he said, hanging up her cloak and layers, hoping to ease her mind. “Do not trouble yourself to abide by formality when my request was, at best, unceremonious.”

She laughed in that peculiar, contagious way that fell somewhere between braying and birdcall. “Forgive me, Ser Aymeric,” she said, interrupting herself to stare sternly into his eyes. “But nothing you do is _unceremonious_.”

By the Fury. Her dark gaze was, for lack of a better term, spellbinding. Thank heaven his steward had left him to endure this torment unobserved. “Come,” he said, eager to distract himself from the heat of her stare. “I have drinks and provisions in the parlor.”

She wore a simple claret gown, cut to reveal only the barest whisper of skin. Still, his heart stuttered to feel her arm slip around his—to feel the warmth of her body press so close to him again. His blood ran hot, surely creeping in a flush up his neck.

 _Halone help me_.

Then, as they began to walk through the hall, she asked it. “What delicious Ishgardian things are you going to entice me with today?”

He took a shallow breath.

_Fury strike and slay me._

“None too seductive, I assure you,” he deflected, immediately regretting his choice of words. Onward and upward. “Light hors d’oeuvres, befitting a purely _political_ counsel,” he continued, allowing a touch of humor to his voice. “And all of it accompanied by no small volume of Ishgardian tea.”

She glanced up at him again, fixing him with that dark, inviting stare. “Purely political,” she echoed, lifting a brow.

“Of course,” he said tersely, glancing at the approaching arch of the parlor. “Would you accuse me of something unprofessional? _Untoward?”_

Her eyes flashed. “You are perhaps the most _toward_ person I’ve ever met,” she admitted. “But that didn’t seem to stop you from kissing me the last time.”

Blood was certainly behind his cheeks. “I-I cannot deny that it happened,” he said, stepping carefully over the threshold. “You were, after all, a willing participant.” The way he looked at her now felt timid indeed.

In the days that followed, how many times had he relived that moment?

_How many times had she?_

They were well in the parlor now, the pause too long for his taste. Much too long for the rapid pounding of his heart, the pulsing of his blood. Surely she felt it, close as she was. But then, incredibly, she drew herself closer.

Now she glanced toward the empty doorway, the hallway besides. And then she met his eyes. The Warrior of Light took his face in both of her glorious hands. Was she trembling? Was _he?_

He could see her lips part—her stern expression soften.

“Aymeric—”

And then there was suddenly nothing. Nothing but that yearning look in her eyes.

She was lifting to her toes but there was no need. She could have asked him to beg, to kneel, to grovel at her feet, and he would have gladly obeyed.

Now nothing mattered but the taste of her lips—the taste he craved above all else. The sweetest communion. He bent down low to receive it.

And it was so much better, so much better than he remembered.

 

* * *

✦

* * *

 


	22. Almost a Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric and Samantha spend a smidgen of time together.  
> On the way home, she reflects on her opinion of love to this point.

* * *

✦ 

* * *

 

On the table in the parlor sat a cooling pot of tea, by two empty cups of drying dregs. Beside it, a silver tray, filigreed and filled with scattered remnants of simple local fare—a handful of stuffed button mushrooms, the remains of cold egg and leek salad, half of a flat and crumbling Ishgardian muffin, a cornerless wedge of savory Trapper’s quiche.

Hearty laughter came from a room nearby, muffled by heavy closed doors. In the small library beyond the sealed doorway sat the Lord Commander and the Warrior of Light, cross-legged on the carpet, a mess of papers spread around them.

“As you can see,” he explained, selecting one of the sheets of parchment—a poorly drawn map, abysmal in quality. “I am in desperate need of some replacements—ideally rendered by a more _skillful_ cartographer.”

She was shaking her head, her face scrunched up in disbelief. “Good _gods_ that is bad,” she said, reaching for it. “May I have a closer look?”

He lifted his eyebrows and handed it to her, nodding slightly. “By all means. Make your own brave attempt to decrypt it.”

“ _Decrypt,_ ” she hissed, swallowing another fit of laughter and squinting hard at the calligraphic diagram—the Dravanian Forelands, declared the cramped scrawl at the top. “If I keep laughing like this, I won’t be able to properly see it.”

“That would be an improvement,” he muttered.       

Without thinking, she barked a laugh and shoved him in the arm. A knight most heavenly was hardly a helpless target—the muscle of his bicep, even beneath the soft quilting of his sleeve, was hard and solid. Still, his pale blue eyes widened, his lips parted, and he stared at her in stunned silence.

Shoving—or cuffing—or _punching_ —was her gut response in these situations, a habit she perpetuated with Alphinaud and … _other_ individuals she feared to call up at present. But _this_ was Aymeric—serious, stoic, solemn Aymeric—still something of a stranger, for all the wealth of words they’d exchanged. Perhaps he wasn’t a fan of such horseplay. She had no way to know.

“I-I apologize,” she stammered, willing to censor herself if only to preserve whatever tentative _something_ was budding between them.

He was laughing without sound, shaking his head. “No need,” he said, spreading fingers over the spot she’d touched in reflex. The corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “But you are quite strong for a sorceress. By Halone, when I invited you to join me this afternoon, I had not thought to guard my _physical integrity_.”

She blinked. The words spilled from her lips without thinking. “But perhaps … you guard something else?”

He met her gaze. Held it for a moment. Suddenly his expression was reserved—almost shy. “Might I be utterly frank?” His voice was very quiet.

She raised her eyebrows. “Please,” she said quickly. “Always.”

He took a breath, studying her with icy blue eyes. “It is nigh impossible to describe. How foolish I was to think words my instrument of choice.”

He chuckled at the afterthought. Then he continued.

“I am a diplomat,” he said softly. “And I am loath to make grand statements. There is power in what we say, and I am not keen to misuse it. But make no mistake—since almost the very moment you confessed your regard, my mind has hummed with the thought of it.”

He lowered his eyes and sighed. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “This is tremendously difficult to speak aloud.”

Her throat was very dry. She wet her lips and swallowed.

“Nothing to forgive,” she managed to say.

He looked back up at her with tense blue eyes. “I am not of the habit of this,” he explained, leaning toward her to gesture with one hand. “Intimate friendship. Deeply though I may crave such a thing—” his gaze flicked briefly to her lips “—I fear that I am ill-equipped to sustain it.” The ghost of a smile lifted his lips. “I can host a gala and lead a congregation of knights, but here now, alone with you—” He took a shallow breath. “I hardly recognize myself.”

She tried to remember to breathe. When he’d leaned close beside her, the smell of him—clean and tempting—set something inside her on fire. “Nothing about you is ill-equipped,” she muttered. “I assure you.”

That urged a soft laugh from him. “I would beg you reserve your judgment,” he said. “For when you come to know me better.”

She looked deep into his eyes.

That sounded almost like a promise.

“I believe I can do that,” she said, her voice still uncomfortably weak. “If it means our private meetings will continue.”

Now, his gaze was unbearably warm, his voice unbearably soft.

“That,” he confessed, “I wish above all else.”

* * *

Her heart fluttered as she trudged back through the snow toward the Manor Fortemps. The sun was just beginning to set, casting the steely greys of the city in honeyed blushes and gold.

The rhythm of her pulse stammered and danced—whirled into flurries at the thought of the heat in his eyes.

_How long had it been since she felt this way?_

No—more than that.

Had she _ever_ felt like this before?

She shoved her hands deep beneath the folds of her cloak and bent against the bite of the wind, considering it.

Her history with men was eccentric at best. And given the story of her parents, who could blame her? A Gyr Abanian woman and a Garlean engineer? Not the best pattern to follow, regardless the details. When it came to more traditional rules—like those of the realm of her upbringing, or Eorzea at large—her relationships stood somewhere in the margins.

The big ones she could count—two, to be precise—took place between her seventeenth and twenty-fourth summers. One of them she almost wed. Almost.

Then came the Calamity. The years that followed held a powerful theme: recovery, retrieval, and reclamation. Personal pursuits like _love_ felt nonessential.

And what was love besides? Whatever she’d come to learn of it was worth neither the time nor the effort. So, she stole a few nights with men that she trusted, and kept moving forward.

Then, before she knew it, she began this business as the Warrior of Light. New life, new friends, new misguided choices.

She snorted, her breath clouding up from her nose in a bright white puff.

 _Thancred_.

There was something she hadn’t mused on in a while.

What a glorious misfire. Since their first introduction, how many times had he tempted and toyed with her? How long had it taken her to realize it was all in _jest?_ She could still recall the fateful evening—the sunset over Thanalan as she pressed him, as she made her intentions _very_ clear.

She remembered the way his warm hazel eyes widened in comprehension, filled with something equal parts curiosity and horror.

“By the _Twelve_ ,” he said, taken thoroughly aback. The heat of his stare was both perplexingly seductive and filled with private astonishment. “Had I known my attentions would have this effect—” He cut himself off. “Do not mistake me—you are _lovely_. But with circumstances as they are—” He cleared his throat. “I should have taken more care to check my tongue. It is my duty as a mentor to guide you in our _cause_ , and nothing else.”

She was a touch taller than him—that Highlander-Garlean heritage. Shame burned in her cheeks, but she planted her hands on her hips to spite it. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.”

Had he been blushing, too? What had he said?

_“The task at hand is far too momentous to afford compromising our relationship.”_

The way she remembered, he seemed to trip over his words. It was probably just the fog of her recollection. After all, Thancred Waters never stammered.

She laughed out loud at the thought.

_I wonder if he even remembers._

Even nursing her rejection, it wasn’t hard to understand his perspective. In hindsight, she was hardly more than a stranger. Add the fact that they were freshly compatriots, working to save the realm—he had a solemn duty to uphold.

Then came Lahabrea.

She shivered.

She supposed she should be _grateful_. At least she hadn’t propositioned him _then_ —or she might have dallied with an _Ascian._

The thought sent a seasick chill down her spine.

She shook her head, glancing up at the spines of the Pillars to settle her train of thought. Tall and formidable against the blushing edge of dusk.

Beneath the weight of her obligation to Eorzea, she stopped seeking relief in others—in bed, at least. Her tasks were too arduous—too taxing, emotionally and physically.

It was only here in the cold of Coerthas, grating against the chilly disposition of a certain gruff dragoon, that she felt the old, familiar pull—the tug of tension and desire that, try as she might to deny it, ended exactly as she feared it would: thrust full into his arms and wrung to pieces.

She took a sharp breath of the icy air.

Almost home. Snow was beginning to fall again. She looked up at the last moments of the sunset—at the beautiful, painted skies.

_“I would beg you reserve your judgement for when you come to know me better.”_

She closed her eyes. In her mind, a pale blue pair stared back at her.

Something about Aymeric was different. He truly was unlike any man in her acquaintance.

He was earnest and kind. Intense, but reserved. All solemn passion, and bold, gentle strength.

Grate against him, she did not.

But something about him still set her aflame—kindled to life in a slow, smoldering way.

And somewhere, deep inside, the ice began to melt.

 

* * *

 ✦ 

* * *

 

 


	23. Here and Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1/13/2019 - Calm, domestic moments with a side of hot fluff.  
> Samantha pays Aymeric an uninvited visit.

 

* * *

✦ 

* * *

 

The cup of tea was warm in her hands—the hearth before her radiant, crackling with twining flames. She could hear the crisp sound of paper moving as Aymeric filed something away, close beside her.

It was late— _impolitely_ late, if she owned the reality—and still storming outside, said a glance at the fogged, frosted windows.

She must have been a vision at the door. Robed head to toe in black and maroon, dusted with a fine film of snowflakes, topped off with a wide-brimmed petasos and scarf to shield her lips—she still held her channeling rod loose and to the side in one black-leathered hand, struggling to strap it down across her back.

Gods only knew what the steward thought. There she was, armed and uninvited, well beyond dinner or any reasonable excuse. But after one long and pondering look, he welcomed her warmly all the same—retrieving her weapon, hat, and cloaks, and bidding her wait just a moment, to let him fetch the Lord of the House.

The steward knew her now, as they did at House Fortemps—not as simply the sellsword servant of Ishgard, or Eorzea’s Warrior of Light, but something ever so slightly more. In this case, Aymeric de Borel’s _particular_ friend.

He emerged from the back hallway with light in his pale blue eyes, moving quickly—it took her breath away to see him so eager, so eager to greet her.

“Samantha,” he said, his voice caressing her name. He was dressed in loose fawn trousers and a white linen shirt, wrapped about the shoulders with a trailing, fur-lined housecoat. He smiled gently. “To whom or what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Her face was still raw and tingling from the cold. When she smiled meekly back at him, her cheeks burned. “I wanted to see you,” she said plainly. Somewhere off to the side, in the corner of her vision, the steward made his hasty exit.

The warmth of Aymeric’s expression could have ended the winter of Coerthas. “I am honored,” he said, gazing down at her. His left hand found her right. “Come. Join me in the study. I have paperwork to attend, but plenty of books besides. Surely one of them will satisfy your appetite for learning.”

She accompanied him back to the small library. The low table there held a spread of quill and inkwell, files and papers, a long settee pulled close beside it. A soft throw blanket lay draped along the spine—did he sleep _here_ some nights?

He moved over to a shelf to gather something into his arms—a pile of books? Had he set them aside specifically for—her?

As he turned back to face her, he caught her questioning eye and laughed. “I know you have a mind for magicks,” he said by way of explanation, crossing back over to deposit the short stack on an open end of the table. “But if reading is not to your taste tonight, I am in possession of some heirloom artifacts you might like to examine.” He tilted his chin toward another shelf, where several curious items were collected. “I am confident you will find them fascinating.”

Yes to books, yes to Coerthan artifacts. She wet her lips. “Please, don’t let me detain you from your work any longer,” she said, glancing at the papers on the table. “I can occupy myself for hours with the materials you’ve provided.”

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Aymeric moved to greet it.

The steward, with a pot of tea, and setting for two.

* * *

Samantha slowly paged through a tome from the stack he’d provided—a delightfully ornamental Ishgardian affair, fully illuminated, illustrating the changes of Coerthas after the Calamity. She picked through passage after passage on wildlife, climate, and environment, each of which touched upon the vast aetheric shifts—the deadly arcane properties of cruel, omnipresent ice.

Beside her on the settee lounged Aymeric, reading and sorting his papers. Now and then, he would bend his long body over to the table—filing this, fetching that—smoothing wide, long-fingered hands along the face of a document to flatten it on the table and sign it. His quill made squeaks and scratches as he marked and notated, sometimes giving a hum low in his throat. His focus was admirable. He’d scarcely spoken a word since taking his seat.

She took a long sip of her tea. Then she cast a slow and savoring glance at him.

Tonight, she would etch him into her memory—the way his brow knitted with the weight of his thoughts—the way he stroked his thumb and forefinger along his bottom lip to gather his focus. She would never forget the fall of his rook-black hair, soft as feathers, across his brow—or the straight line of his nose—or the delicate arch of his eyebrows—or the way his icy, fathomless eyes turned to meet hers.

“Is something the matter?”

She took a quick breath and shook her head, a graceful blush creeping up her neck. “No, no,” she said quickly. “Just—watching you work,” she admitted clumsily, chewing on her lower lip.

He lifted his eyebrows and grinned sardonically. “Thrilling entertainment, I am sure.”

She gasped a laugh. “I admire your focus,” she told him, nodding to the papers. “Please, do go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He stacked the papers in his hands and bent to file them neatly away, marking something in a ledger to the side. “I daresay I could use an interruption,” he said, glancing back up at her. “The _focus_ you admire so much is perhaps more aptly described as a stubborn propensity to work myself ragged.”

That reminded her of the blanket behind them—the question that rang through her mind before. “Do you _sleep_ in this study sometimes?”

He pressed his lips together and scrubbed his thumb and forefinger across his chin, glancing away. “Guilty.”

“Good _gods,_ Aymeric,” she muttered.

He quirked a brow, meeting her eyes again. “Tell me the strangest place _you_ have slept.”

Her mouth opened in shock. “How can I possibly—” But the answer immediately sprang to her mind. “Azys Lla,” she said firmly, trying to cast away the thought as quickly as it came.

_Not now._

Aymeric’s eyes were wide. “You _slept_ in Azys Lla?”

She looked away from him. “I did,” she muttered. “But if you don’t mind—” Her throat felt dry, brittle. She swallowed hard—blinked against the sudden prickle in her eyes. “I would rather not discuss it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Of course,” he said. “I—cannot possibly begin to imagine—” He paused. “Let us remain in the here and now.”

She glanced back at him to find tense pale eyes searching her face.

Samantha smiled weakly. “I would much rather observe _you_ and share my reflections,” she confessed.

_And ground myself desperately here in this instant._

His ice-blue eyes scanned her expression. Even in such an intimate setting, his stare was cool and shrewd—an ilm away from cunning. Only Aymeric could manage to look regal and daunting in little more than a loose pullover shirt.

As she held his gaze, curiosity softened his features. “Dare I enquire?” he wondered aloud.

She kept her eyes on him and leaned back against the settee, cradling her cup of tea against the folds of her robes. “Be my guest,” she invited, watching him carefully.

Now his eyes seemed to pierce straight through her—sharp, splitting her open, all the way down to her heart. The echo of a feeling breathed through her soul. _Like baring a wound to clean it_.

Slowly, he leaned back along with her. “Tell me about your reflections, then,” he said, a tender demand. “Tell me your thoughts in this particular moment.”

The intensity in his eyes was building, setting her heart to flutter. She looked down at her half-gone cup of tea.  How could she explain it—the need to carve his likeness in her heart?

The dregs swirled slowly in her cup.

After so much loss, the urge to keep, to cling, to _collect_ , swarmed to fill her heart. And while even the barest glance at Aymeric called mind to his beauty—he _was_ very beautiful, so much so at times that she wondered if she dreamt—it was not Aymeric’s beauty that drove her cherish him.

He was solemn and earnest, thoughtful and _warm._ More than that, he was _here_ —safe and hale and quietly serving his beloved Ishgard. Gods willing, she would protect him—and do nearly _anything_ to ensure his preservation.

“I am glad that you are safe,” she finally said. “And glad to be beside you tonight, late though it may be.”

The fabric whispered as he shifted against the cushion. She looked up to find him facing her fully, his arm stretched to line the spine of the settee, displacing the folds of the blanket. His hand was close enough to graze her shoulder. “Full glad am I that you came,” he said gently. “I—” His voice caught unexpectedly. “I wish for you to visit, whenever you please.”

She chuckled darkly. “You might regret that invitation,” she muttered, smoothing her fingers against the curved sides of her teacup. “Of all my titles, creature of the night is perhaps the most fitting.”

He watched her with a painfully warm expression. “You are welcome regardless,” he pressed.

Aymeric seemed to think for a moment about his next words—to edit them before he spoke. “I like to believe that I have _some_ ability to discern the comfort of others,” he finally continued, his eyes roving her face. “And after countless moments in your presence, I daresay you seem—very contented here.”

That almost made her laugh.

He was right, of course. The ease she felt with him was rivaled only by the calm of the Manor Fortemps. In either case, it was not the house that warmed her heart.

She loosed a light chuckle and lowered her eyes. “It would be difficult to feel _un_ comfortable beside you, Aymeric,” she murmured.

His hand on the spine of the settee moved to brush her shoulder with one, two fingers.

A soft touch. A shy touch.

She looked up to find him taking a breath.

“Tell me what might give you discomfort,” he said lowly, looking down at her with a pale and burning stare. “That I may never allow it to happen.”

Her heart seemed to plummet from her body, searing hot. _Good gods._

She tried to collect herself, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. “You do yourself a discredit to imagine you might even be _capable_ ,” she said gruffly, looking down at her tea for a moment before downing the remains of it all at once.

His fingertips grazed her shoulder, then stilled against her in a gentle caress. He was silent for a moment.

“I am only a man,” he finally said, his voice very quiet. “And quite proficient when it comes to blundering, I assure you.”

She met his eyes. “I think I will continue to reserve my judgment,” she said gently. “And more than willing to bet that my capacity to blunder _far_ surpasses yours.” She laughed at herself under her breath. “As I’m sure you have noticed, I am not— _adept_ at minding my manners.”

He was leaning toward her, lifting his eyebrows. “In the whole of our acquaintance, you have been nothing but polite and courteous,” he said, staring sternly at her, his shoulders confidently squared.

She pursed her lips. “I am _selfish_ , Aymeric,” she said, self-conscious. “I came here tonight without a thought for you—or your work,” she said, gesturing to the table. Her face burned with shame as she glanced back at him through her lashes. “I wanted to see you, so I came.”

A delicate blush colored his cheeks. “Much to my pleasure, as you surely recall.”

She flushed even hotter. Holding his gaze, she spoke without thinking, her voice full of breath. “You are far too kind to trifle with me, Aymeric,” she said, the words coming in a rush. “Too generous—to _set books aside_ , to cater to my whims—to quit your pressing work to speak to me thus.” She took a faltering breath. “To _look at me thus._ ”

Her heart was pounding. She shut her mouth in embarrassment. Aymeric’s hand on her shoulder flexed, moving slowly to trace a path above her collarbone—combing gently beneath the dark waves of her hair.

His voice was unbearably soft. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

She trembled, not trusting herself to speak.

He watched his fingers as he twined them in the lowermost layers of her hair. “You referred to the Vault before—when you aided me against the True Brothers of the Faith. You moved with grace and vigor and—to use the word you gave to me— _devotion._ ”

He lifted his eyes back to hers. Heat smoldered behind them, warmed his voice as he spoke. “Wreathed in flame and rime, calling on energies sacred and profane—” He took a shallow breath, something like reverence in his eyes. “You, who lay low our false idols, were so very near to the divine.”

Warm fingertips pressed gently around the back of her neck, and she shuddered.

“In that moment, I knew beyond any misgiving,” he breathed, leaning closer. “Beyond the faintest _shadow,_ that this divine creature—that the _woman_ at my side—would lay down her life for my cause.” Ice-blue eyes pierced deep into her soul. “Have you any idea what that means to me?”

The world around her dissolved, narrowing to the touch at the base of her skull—the irresistible face in front of her—the lips she was desperate to taste.

“More,” she whispered, dizzy. “You deserve _so_ much more than I could ever give you.”

She watched his lips part to take a halting breath.

“No,” he said, the softest exhalation. “I am the debtor.” His breath was warm on her skin. He brushed his lips across hers in supplication. “I have taken enough of you already.”

She received his kiss with an open, wanting mouth. His lips, his tongue—more, more.

The teacup in her lap fell to the carpet with a dull thud as she folded herself against him—as he eased himself closer, both of his warm, wide hands sliding down her body.

Gods, it was like nothing ever before. It was sinking, suffocating, _drowning_.

Down, down he pulled her—down against his lap, down to cover his body, down to smother his mouth. She arched up to gasp for breath and he followed, panting hard and hot against her neck. “Forgive me,” he said suddenly, his voice gruff.

She looked down at him through the dark curtain of her hair, pushing it back behind her ears. “What for?”

His face and neck were flushed, his long, tapered ears tinted red. His lips were still parted, and she bent down to taste them once more, drawing a low sound from deep in his chest. “ _Fury_ ,” he breathed, flexing his body up against her, opening his mouth.

For a long, slow moment, they drank deep of each other. Then the clock on his desk chimed—one. One in the morning. Both were breathless, struggling to resurface.

 _So late_. But she hardly cared about the time. She was buried deep in the warm haze they had created, with no wish to crawl back out.

Still, she propped herself up above him. Red-faced, Aymeric smoothed a hand across his forehead, looking up at her with naked yearning in his eyes. His voice was soft and covetous. “Must we wake from this vision?”

Her heart twisted and rebelled at the thought, but she knew the answer was yes.

“I wish I could say no,” she muttered, folding back down against him—resting her cheek against the base of his throat. She could hear his heartbeat, fast and ragged. One of his hands traced a path up her spine.

She listened as he took a deep breath. “Just a moment longer, then,” he said gently.

She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

_Let us remain in the here and now._

 

* * *

✦

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you enjoyed anything in particular, have a prompt suggestion, or otherwise wish to critique my work, please leave me a comment! 
> 
> I'm very friendly and I thrive on feedback!


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